Of Wings and Love
by ultraviolet128
Summary: Cracky, AU, probably OOC, slashy insanity - basically, Sherlock has wings. Like, massive feathery wings, attached to his shoulders. And he might be in love with John. T for mentions of child abuse and depressing stuff. Better than it sounds, I promise! :D
1. Chapter 1

**OK… This is a mad, cracky, probably OOC, AU fic, but I just couldn't resist! Inspired by the amazing story 'Gamayun' by the wonderful bedamn – GO READ IT NOW! They've done a much better job of it than I have, and I'm not intending to copy but I just couldn't stop myself! :) **

**Basically – Sherlock has wings! :)**

**Warnings: Very brief, non-graphic mentions of child abuse, murder, suicide.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, not even a smidge of him :(**

Sherlock has never liked the colour of his wings.

Mummy used to have long, sweeping white-gold wings, which were beautiful and delicate and shone in any light, however dim. Each feather arranged neatly, glossy and even.

Mycroft's wings had been a dark stormy grey with flecks of brown – more powerful than Sherlock's own, though Sherlock had always relished having a greater wingspan than his older brother. Also, the extra strength came at a price – they were bulkier and more cumbersome than Sherlock's, though he could always fly twice as fast.

He had only seen his father's wings once, walking in him on him once when he was working in his study. He'd got a beating afterwards, but it had been worth it. Father's wings were massive, barely fitting in the room, and jet black. They showed signs of wear and tear, unlike Mummy's, but they were so awe-inspiring that their shabbiness was irrelevant.

When he was very little, Sherlock had used to think that everyone had wings. It was only until he asked Jenna Hargreaves at school what colours hers were, and pulled off her shirt to check when she said she didn't have any, that he realised. He was given a beating for that too, and nearly excluded. PE at school was an embarrassment, of course, but Sherlock would just stand with his back to the wall and change his shirt quickly in order to avoid the stares. Of course, they still called him "freak" and "bird boy", but he learned to let the insults appear to bounce off him, and once he began to hone his deductive powers, no one dared to bully him for the fear of the unwelcome secrets he would reveal to their peers. New kids would try it every now and again, shocked and repulsed because he was _different_, but after feeling the lash of Sherlock's tongue, the taunts petered out. But although the open hostility ceased, no one bothered to extend their friendship to the skinny, ivory-skinned, ebony-curled boy. There was no one to talk to or play with at break times in the playground.

Despite all the problems they had brought him, Sherlock still loved his wings. When it was dark he and Mycroft would go out flying together, soaring above their hometown, wheeling in the cool rush of the night air, gloriously higher and higher until Sherlock was dizzy. And then they would glide to a halt, and look down at the pinpricks of light beneath them. And Mycroft would say, "One day, it's all going to be mine." There was no trace of arrogance or conceit to his words – just certainty.

And Sherlock would nod, because when he was little he believed his older brother was always right. That was before Mummy got sick, and before Father started drinking.

When Mycroft was seventeen, and Sherlock was ten, Mycroft came home from university at half term and said he wanted to get rid of his wings.

Sherlock hadn't understood. The wings were part of Mycroft – they _were _Mycroft. How could he get rid of them? And what was more, it meant no midnight flights over the countryside together.

Father and Mycroft had argued with Mummy for hours. Normally, Mummy just agreed with what Father said, but this time she was adamant – Sherlock could hear her sobbing from his bedroom. He heard Mycroft say that wings were "pointless" and that they were limiting his political career, always having that stupid hunchback beneath his shirt, and that they were cramped all the time, and the pain was distracting him.

Mummy begged and cried and cried and begged, but his mind was made up. Finally, she even mentioned his flights with Sherlock, and Sherlock heard Mycroft say loftily, "The freak's got to grow up eventually."

And then he heard a slap, and the noise of Mummy striding up the stairs to his room, and then she was holding him in her arms. She removed her cardigan so her wings could slide out through the slits cut in the back of her blouse, and they enveloped him, hugging him close. He could smell that familiar scent and the soft gentleness of her feathers and the light of them shone about him, but all he could think of was that Mycroft would never hold him like this again, once the wings were gone. He sobbed and sobbed, and so did she, until they fell asleep.

Father took Mycroft to a very private hospital in London, and they cut his wings from him. When Sherlock next saw Mycroft a few months later, his back was smooth and straight and wing-free. He even lifted his shirt to prove to Mummy that the scarring wasn't even that bad – just pale, raised marks at his shoulder blades where the extra bone had been cut off. He looked strange without wings – smaller, somehow. And though he said he was happy, and he walked more confidently, and that superior grin lingered on his face for longer than it used to, there was something in his eyes that was _gone_. That same something that had shone in his eyes when they had flown together. That joy, that passion, that excitement, that _life_.

It scared Sherlock.

And then, about a year later, Mummy began to get sick. The doctors came and whispered at her bedside, but nothing they did worked. Father started drinking, every night, and the beatings got worse, until when the blows fell, Sherlock's feathers would fall from him in a soft shower to the floor.

And then Sherlock came home from school one day to find them fighting (again), and Mummy staggered out of bed and began screaming, and Father grabbed her by the wrists, pinned her against the banisters, shook her viciously, and then shoved her away.

Arabella Holmes fell down three flights of stairs, fracturing her skull, her pelvis, and both her legs. Due to her already poor state of health, she never recovered. William Holmes was sentenced to life in prison for her murder, and hanged himself there a year later.

Sherlock went to stay with Mycroft in London, which he loathed. He was a nuisance – he got in the way, and he knew it. And then he went to university to study Chemistry, and he was scrupulously careful in keeping his wings hidden in case anyone found out and tried to lock him away to do experiments on him. In their own small home village, his father's money had gagged the gossiping mouths, but now there was nothing left but the trust fund, and they could never pay off the whole of London. He lost the energy for his nightly flights, and let his world dissolve into a painless, beautiful, drug-induced dream. And then everything turned bad in his head and he bound his wings to his body and tried to jump from the roof of the university, and then Mycroft stopped him, and Sherlock hated him for it.

And then he had met Greg Lestrade (who was only a sergeant at the time) in a bar downing his fourth pint. It hadn't been hard for Sherlock to tempt the information from the man, and then he had solved the case that had been troubling the whole of Scotland Yard for four months in four minutes. Then began to meet at the pub regularly, and Lestrade would give him his cases, and Sherlock would solve them. It became his cocaine, surpassing all other desires – there was only lust for that perfect triumph, the astonishment, the praise, the congratulations, the admiration, the envy. Lestrade forced him to eat and sleep every now and again, through blackmailing him with the threat of withholding interesting cases, but they were never really friends. They were colleagues, with an almost grudging respect for the other's abilities, but never friends.

And then John Watson _(obviously a soldier, psychosomatic limp, back from Afghanistan or Iraq) _had hobbled into his life, and carved a niche there, in Sherlock's mind, and settled down with his newspaper and his jumpers and his sandy-brown-gold hair and his cups of tea. And somehow, Sherlock grew to care for him, and even more incredibly, John grew to care for Sherlock. Until one day, Sherlock realised that John wasn't just his flatmate, he was his _friend_, and he voiced the thought aloud accidentally, and John seemed surprised (once he'd stopped laughing) because apparently it was perfectly obvious that Sherlock was his friend – in fact, he was John's _best _friend. And the thought had, inexplicably, sent a gush of shivery warmth through Sherlock, and he was so confused by it that he merely made a sharp, rude comment, and flustered, left the room. But the way John looked at him, Sherlock knew that he hadn't believed the act for a minute, which was _intriguing_, and one of the reasons that he liked John so much.

Sherlock stroked the edge of his right wing thoughtfully. No, he didn't like the colour. His wings were a bizarre combination of gold, pale cream, dark grey and chestnut brown. He knew they probably said something about him – his genius and his stupidity, his kindness and his cruelty, his arrogance and his self-hatred. He had created the perfect, cold, compassionless persona for himself, and that Sherlock ought to have dull, black wings, like his father had. The ridiculous wings destroyed that illusion. The only thing he liked about them was the fact that they were so thin and delicate that could fold back in on themselves so easily, like a complex origami model, fitting neatly beneath his clothes, where no one could ever see them.

Strangely, his thoughts wandered back to John.

John was compassionate and gentle and loyal and displayed far more kindness to Sherlock than he could possibly deserve. He sympathised, he listened, he bore the insults hurled at him day after day. He ordered what Sherlock wanted from the takeaway menu without needing to ask, because he knew when Sherlock was tired, down, or "just not hungry, John, for God's sake!" He made the best tea, no question. He gave Sherlock that little look sometimes that meant "not-good". He made Sherlock watch incredibly dull television programmes, which Sherlock couldn't help but enjoy. He scolded Sherlock for not eating or not sleeping. Because, impossible as it seemed, John _cared._

A sudden, dangerous thought came into Sherlock's head.

What if he were to let John see his wings?

**Is it worth me carrying on, or not? Please review :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Woo, another chapter! :)**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock's still not mine, but I'll get him one day.**

**Enjoy!**

The sound of John's footsteps on the stairs startled Sherlock out of his reverie. Quickly, he folded in his wings, pulled on his dressing gown, and flung himself down on the sofa in a position of easy nonchalance.

John clomped up the stairs slowly, obviously weighed down with shopping. He reached the landing and hobbled into the kitchen, dumping the carrier bags on the table with a sigh of relief.

"Tea," Sherlock demanded, just as John clicked on the kettle.

"On its way," John said, with a yawn.

"You're tired," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question, but John treated it as such.

"Yes I am… All this bloody…" He stifled another yawn. "Running for miles through London at three in the morning trying to find some errant investment banker, or insurance broker… whatever he was… It takes it out of you."

"Hm," Sherlock said. His mind wandered, unbidden, and he had the sudden urge to wrench back his dressing gown and show John what was hidden beneath, beg him to accept him, even if he was a freak. His heart began hammering in his chest, and his wings switched nervously. He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers, hoping to pass off his anxious exhalation of breath as a contemplative sigh.

John had disappeared into the kitchen again, and thankfully, the reckless impulse faded somewhat. That was, until John returned carrying two mugs of tea, one of which he set down gently next to Sherlock's arm, shifting aside a beaker full of mould to make room on the coffee table. Sherlock didn't need to look at it to know that it contained exactly the right amount of milk.

"Sherlock? What's this?" John had picked up something from the floor – when Sherlock saw what it was his stomach did a backflip. He fought to keep his face impassive.

_John. Holding. My. Feather._

"Surely it's blatantly obvious that it's a feather, John."

_ It must have fallen out, damn it, damn it, damn it._

"I know," John said placidly. "But it's unusual."

_Oh no, please no, just put it down, forget it, throw it out of the window, just stop being _interested_._

"Seriously, Sherlock, look at this!" John sounded ridiculously keen on the stupid feather in his hand, turning it over and over with enthusiasm. Every time he brushed it with his fingers Sherlock felt a peculiar little chill shoot down his spine, as if it were still attached to him.

"John, I have absolutely no interest in some absurd feather you have discovered," he said quickly, in his most bored voice. "I really have better things with which to occupy my time."

"You haven't had a bird in here, then? I've never seen a feather like this before." He ran his fingers over it again, and Sherlock's breath hitched slightly.

"No, John, I think I would know if there had been a bird wandering the flat, spontaneously moulting irritating feathers," he snapped. John, shrugged, as usual unperturbed by his rudeness, and set the feather on the table tenderly.

"It's got nice colours to it. I was just wondering…"

In the days that followed, Sherlock was unfortunately without cases, and this left him both dangerously, recklessly, experimentally bored, and also (worryingly) spending a great deal of time contemplating John and the wing situation.

Then again, maybe "theorising situations involving John and the wing situation" would be more appropriate.

Or perhaps, "imagining potential sets of circumstances that might necessitate informing John of the wing situation".

Or possibly, "daydreaming about how one might happen to accidentally disclose the fact that one possesses wings to one's flatmate".

Oh, sod it all.

Fantasising about showing his wings to John.

Maybe John would walk in on him one morning just as he was waking up (he usually began the day with a long wing-stretch, if he could, as if to compensate for the uncomfortable sensation of being lain on that they had to endure for the majority of the night) and catch sight of them then.

Maybe there would be a case that would somehow involve investigating the outside of a tall building, and so it would be purely a matter of business, and he could announce to John: "I happen to be perfectly equipped for this case, in a rather unusual way", and then obviously have to reveal his wings in order to go and observe the outside of the building.

Maybe if (heaven forbid) John was to fall off a building, for example (they spent enough time running over rooftops for this to be perfectly possible), then Sherlock would simply wrench off his shirt and fly down to catch him. He quite liked the idea of saving John's life, not that he hadn't done it before.

Of course, the easiest way would just be to sit down beside John after they'd solved a case and announce that he had something to tell him, and then show him the wings. But somehow the idea sent butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach, because if he was afraid (all right, _petrified_) at what John would say.

He tried to analyse all the options.

Worst-case scenario: John would call him a freak and hand him to the scientists to be poked and prodded for the rest of his life. Sherlock knew that prior evidence of John's personality made this distinctly unlikely, but the fear was still there. And somehow, bizarrely, he thought he could live with the "being handed over to scientists", but the thought of losing John's friendship, the thought of losing_ John_, sent quivers of cold up his spine.

He didn't really dare to think too much about the reaction he _did_ want from John.

He supposed he wanted acceptance, just someone to _tell_. Someone he could moan to when his wings were aching, or someone he could share the amazing _joy _of flying with. He wanted to be able to stretch out his wings in the living room instead of having them scrunched up against his back all day long. He wanted John to be interested, impressed – he wanted him to ask questions and _care_, like only John could. Somehow, he didn't like lying to John (even though he'd never felt bad about lying to anyone, before, ever).

And somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his mind (and he'd never admit it to himself, ever), he wanted something _else_, though he wasn't quite sure what that something else was.

He'd had a dream once about kissing John. It had been after a case that had kept him awake for nearly eighty hours straight, and when sleep had come for him, it had taken no prisoners. The strange thing was that in the dream, the kiss hadn't even seemed important. A light brush of John's heated lips on his, as if it were perfectly normal and natural, but so _good_ that it had taken his breath away.

He'd woken breathless and confused, and somehow no matter how hard he tried to erase that imagined memory from his head, he couldn't.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, attempting to focus.

"Come on, Sherlock!" Lestrade urged. "We'll lose him!"

"Willoughby Street, then the alley off Lincoln Way," Sherlock announced.

He and Lestrade shared a single glance, and then each raced off in opposite directions.

"Donovan, Tomlins, Mellson, with me!" Lestrade barked. "We'lll head him off round the corner. Move it!"  
Sherlock and John, of course, were left to chase after the miscreant (a petty thief who'd recently turned to drug dealing) to make sure he was driven straight into the arms of Lestrade and co. Sprinting down brightly-lit streets, dodging the rowdy drunks falling out of bars and clubs, then along a dark alleyway, then…

It was the sharp, metallic click of the safety catch that alerted John, and he was immediately acutely aware of the danger. His army training kicked in, the rush of adrenaline hitting him like a train. "Sherlock!" he yelled, and careered into the consulting detective, knocking him backwards on to the tarmac just as the pistol barked and the bullet skimmed over their heads. A second later, the sound of running feet as their quarry beat a hasty retreat down the alley, and then the shouting of obscenities as he ran into the four policeman at the end of it.

Sherlock and John lay, panting, on the ground, hearts thundering. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, his wings painfully crushed beneath him. "Thank you, John," he murmured. "I believe you have saved my life. Again."

"No problem, Sherlock," John said evenly, clambering off him, dusting himself down, and reaching down a hand to help him up. "God knows what you'd do without me, eh?"

Sherlock attempted a chuckle, but his damaged wings were hurting badly. Of course, John the doctor (as opposed to John the soldier, or John the tea-dispenser) noticed at once.

"Are you OK, Sherlock? Sorry, I must have given you a nasty old whack when you went down."

"It was certainly preferable to being shot," Sherlock replied curtly, and clambered awkwardly to his feet.

John still looked worried even as they bid goodnight to Lestrade and his new, scowling prisoner – he kept shooting Sherlock small, concerned glances, and insisted they get a taxi instead of walking. By the time they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock felt exhausted, his strength nibbled away by the furious concentration that had been required by the case and the agonising spasms of pain in his wings. His legs felt like jelly, and he barely made it up the seventeen steps, immediately collapsing gingerly on the sofa, cautious of damaging his wings still more.

"Are you all right?" John said urgently, clearly worried by Sherlock's unusual silence.

"Quite fine, John, if only you would stop pestering me," Sherlock snapped. John gave him a sharp look that quite plainly read, _I know you're only being obnoxious to try and put me off_, and left the living room, returning a few seconds later with a first aid box, which he set down decisively on the coffee table. Sherlock stared at it blankly.

"Come on," John said encouragingly. "Let me have a look at your back – you must have scraped it when I threw you to the floor back then."

Sherlock's heart leapt into his mouth and began to beat at what felt like three times its normal speed.

"That's quite unnecessary," he said coolly, refusing to meet John's eyes.

"It'll only take a moment," John insisted. _Why, oh why, did the man have to be so bloody persistent? _"Come on, take your shirt off."

_No, no, no, no, no… He can't see them, he can't…_

Sherlock shuffled along the sofa, trying to get further away from John, who frowned in perplexity.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Look, calm down, I'm not trying to make a pass at you, or anything…"

For one insane moment, Sherlock thought, _I would prefer it if you were._

"Please, just let me have a look. I'm a doctor, remember? I know what you're like – you'll leave it, neglect it, and it'll be infected before you can say 'idiotic'. Just pull up your shirt and I'll check it out."

Sherlock heart was pounding in panic. Somehow the fact that he'd been daydreaming about a moment like this only days before seemed incredible. The reality was terrifying – what if John was horrified and repulsed? He could just see the shocked expression in his mind's eye, that step backwards, that flash of fear…

"I can't," Sherlock mumbled, and instantly regretted it. John's eyes blinked in apparent understanding.

"Look Sherlock, if there's… scars, or anything there, it doesn't matter, OK? I'm a doctor, and I'm your friend – I'm not going to judge you, am I?"

_But you won't be able to help it – oh God…_

"I'm just trying to help – trust me," John said gently, and his face was the mirror image of when he'd said, _"It's all fine"_, that time in the café, when they'd only just met. The soft brown eyes burned into Sherlock's, and he felt his hands begin to shake.

"John, don't…"

A thousand thoughts flashed through his head at once.

_Don't be disgusted, don't hate me, don't call the scientists, don't laugh, don't run away, don't think it's some kind of joke, don't be afraid, don't think I'm a freak, don't walk out, don't leave me, don't…_

"Don't what, Sherlock?" John asked quietly, and for an answer, Sherlock pulled off his shirt.

**Just a quick thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourited, put on alerts, etc, last time – you all made my day, honestly! Thanks for all your encouragement, and please please please tell me what you think – favourite bit? looking forward to part 3? :)**

**PS. Really sorry if people got loads of multiple alerts, the website was being stupid when I was trying to put it up! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 :D

Disclaimer: No, he's not mine, OK? No need to rub it in!

Warnings: Mild bad language

Enjoy!

Sherlock cowered as his wings instinctively spread out, unfurling painfully until they stretched nearly the length of the room. He couldn't bring himself to look at John. He knew full well that he was hardly particularly attractive as it was – his skin chalk-white, and his body so thin that you could see every rib – even without the alien protrusions issuing from his shoulder blades.

He heard a faint gurgling noise, and looked up, fearful that John was about to collapse.

John's mouth had fallen open, and he was clearly trying to speak, but his voice appeared to have vanished. He wasn't looking at Sherlock, rather his eyes were racing over the wings, as if unsure that they were real. A trace of movement stirred his body, and Sherlock wanted to clench his eyes shut – he was going to step backwards, he was going to turn around and leave, he was going to…

John took a hesitant step towards him.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," he murmured, awe-struck. There was no horror or repulsion in his face – in fact, he looked a little as if he wanted to laugh with excitement. "I… I mean… God… How…? When…? What…? Jesus Christ…"

He did laugh then, but it wasn't a mocking laugh at all, not the kind that Sherlock had feared. It was hoarse, and stunned, and excited, and _happy_. He put a hand over his mouth and smoothed it down his face, exhaling slowly. Sherlock stayed frozen, waiting for what was going to happen next.

"I think I might sit down," John said presently, and cleared a space on the coffee table and sat on it, opposite Sherlock, who was still finding it hard to meet his eyes. Unexpectedly, John stretched out his hand and took Sherlock's. His fingers were warm and dry and slightly callused, and if Sherlock's heart hadn't already been racing, he was sure it would have sped up.

"This – this must be a dream," John said quietly.

"It isn't," Sherlock said, his mouth dry. His hand was still shaking, trembling beneath John's fingers.

John gave another hoarse laugh, shaking his head and rubbing it with his free hand. "This is just… impossible…"

He glanced up at Sherlock's wings again, that smile breaking over his face like a ray of sunshine on an overcast day. "Holy shit, Sherlock… You've got _wings_."

"Well noticed, John," Sherlock replied acidly, with only a slight tremble in his voice. "Your powers of observation are improving."

John beamed, and Sherlock was so overcome, so _thankful _that he was still John, that he still _cared_, that he wanted to cry. And that was a very odd thought, because he hadn't cried since he was a child, when Mycroft had said that he wanted to get rid of his wings. Instead, he raised his head and met John's soft brown gaze.

"You don't think I'm a…" The word caught in his throat. "You don't think I'm a… freak?"

John recoiled, letting go of Sherlock's hand for a second, but a moment later he had recovered and took hold of it again. "Sherlock, you should know that I have never and will never think you're a freak. You're amazing – brilliant, even, every part of you. Even the…" He waved a vague hand. "The… y'know… Feathery bits."

Sherlock snorted back a laugh.

"And whoever called you a freak," John continued, his voice more serious now. "Then whoever, wherever they are, I'll track them down and tell them they're wrong, OK? Because they _are _wrong, Sherlock, and you need to remember that."

They sat for a moment in silence, and Sherlock realised he wanted to tell John everything – all the memories he'd filed away as "useless" in the back of his head. He wanted to tell him about Mycroft getting rid of his wings and Father beating him and about Mummy and how he'd felt so guilty about not being able to save her when she died. Everything swirled and tangled in his head, and he opened his mouth and nothing came out. And before he knew what was happening, John had caught him in an awkward hug, apparently wary of touching his wings, which he was glad of, because he didn't know what it would feel like. But it was still the best hug he'd ever had – one of the only hugs he'd ever had. John's arms were warm and strong and he had to stop his wings instinctively curling around the two of them.

"Listen, Sherlock," John said against his shoulder. "If you want to talk, then you can – whenever. It can be now, or tomorrow, or next week, or next year, or never, if you prefer. OK?"

Sherlock nodded, because he knew he did want to tell John these things, but maybe now, on top of everything else, was not a good time.

They drew back and John laughed awkwardly again. "Typical. The first time I hug you and it's because I find out you've got _wings_. They must be – what? 4 metres?"

"4.2," Sherlock supplied, and John seemed about to ask something else when his mouth dropped open.

"Holy shit… That feather I found the other week – that was _yours_?"

Sherlock nodded mutely, embarrassed.

John shook his head, laughing. "Of all the possibilities that entered my head, I would say that the idea that Sherlock Holmes might be moulting feathers from his massive wings (that he's kept hidden for god-knows-how-long) was the very last on my list."

He paused nervously. "It wasn't… bad, me picking it up, was it? I'm afraid I don't know much about wing etiquette."

"I felt it."

The words were out of Sherlock's mouth before he could stop them, and he flushed crimson at once.

"Oh." John looked surprised. "You mean, even though it had fallen out, you still had some sort of connection to it – you could feel me touching it?"

Sherlock nodded, willing the scarlet to leave his cheeks.

John looked split between looking impressed and fascinated. "And…" He stopped again, clearly full of questions but unsure about whether it was appropriate to ask them.

"You can ask, you know," Sherlock offered curtly. Somehow the familiar set-up of John asking him questions to which he held all the answers felt normal and reassuring.

John laughed again and ran a hand through his hair. "I guess you've had them since you were a child, then?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And your parents... Mycroft?"

Sherlock swallowed painfully, and went to speak, but John seemed to sense it was a subject he'd rather not dwell on, and waved his hand. "Don't worry about that one. I'll ask it another day."

He hesitated. "Can you actually... you know... fly with them?"

"Most certainly."

John gave another incredulous laugh. "Jesus Christ... And do you?"

"Not for some time – it's more difficult in London. But occasionally."

"I'd like to..." It was John's turn to flush. "I'd like to see you, one day."

Sherlock, without thinking about what he was doing, flashed him another smile. "I'd like that."

There was another short silence, and all of a sudden, that dream he had had about kissing John returned abruptly to his mind. John was dangerously close, and his hand was warm and comforting on Sherlock's, and Sherlock had the strange impulse to drift forwards and let his lips... He mentally restrained himself. If he and John's friendship had really survived the revelation that he possessed gigantic bird wings, then he couldn't let it be destroyed by giving into a momentary carnal impulse.

John was frowning again. "If they're folded against your back all the time, then you must have really bashed them when you went down earlier, not to mention with my weight on top of you too."

"As I have already told you, it was certainly preferably to having a bullet in the chest," Sherlock reminded him bluntly.

John shrugged in acquiescence. "Anyway, I'd better... um... have a look. I might put some antiseptic... Hell, no offence, but you could really do with a vet rather than a doctor."

Sherlock couldn't help himself – his smile widened into a manic grin and before he knew it he and John were laughing like lunatics, like that first time they'd come in after chasing that cabbie (though they hadn't realised they'd been chasing him, at that point) through London. That was the first time Sherlock had looked at John and thought: _yes, this is good. I like this John Watson. _Sherlock loved it when John laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and other, deeper lines being smoothed out as that silly chuckle issued from his mouth.

Eventually, they gained control of themselves again, and John stood up decisively. "Come on, then, let me see."

He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves from the first aid box, and then hesitated again. "It's not that I don't want to touch them – honestly, I don't want to do much else, but if you could feel me touching that feather of yours when it wasn't even attached to your body, I'm not sure it'd be a good idea... I mean, is it unpleasant when someone else touches them?"

"Nobody has," Sherlock said quietly. "Not since I was a child, and..."

Unwanted images filled his mind before he could stop them – his father, raising the belt, boys at school jeering and tugging at his wings as if trying to pull them off, that deep bone-aching _hurt _that lingered long after the physical pain had ceased. He shuddered, and his breath suddenly came short. John reacted at once, dropping to his knees in front of Sherlock and gripping his shoulders tightly, anchoring him as he fought to catch his breath. He focused on John's slow, regular, warm breathing until he had calmed down again. He would have been embarrassed, had it not been for John's soothing lop-sided grin.

"So I thought the gloves might be a good idea?" he continued, standing again as if nothing had happened. "I expect they're just grazed and bruised, but I've got some antiseptic (well, some Germolene) and I could try cold compresses for the bruising?"

Sherlock nodded gratefully, and shifted around on the sofa so John could stand behind him and assess any damage. He hadn't expected another long, shaky exhalation from John, and twitched his head back to see what was wrong. But John didn't look concerned, rather he looked completely awed. "Jesus, Sherlock, they're _phenomenal_."

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "That's as may be, but I thought you were applying this Germolene stuff?"

John laughed again, and Sherlock heard him take a step forwards. "I'm just going to put my hand here, OK?"

"What do you want, a countdown?" Sherlock started to say, but he didn't get beyond "want", because at that moment's John's warm fingers met his chestnut/white/ebony/copper/gold feathers.

He was infinitely grateful that John had put on gloves, because he thought he might have uttered an extremely embarrassing cry if he hadn't. It was just like the sensation when John had picked up his feather, but magnified a hundred times over, electricity fizzling from the point of contact along the wings and plunging down to his shoulder blades, sending a warm shiver through him. It was like he'd just sunk into a hot bath when his limbs had been numb with cold for hours.

He must have let out a gasp, because John stilled. "You OK?"

"Yes, fine," he managed to choke out, and he could sense that John was smiling.

"Good."

The ferocity of sensation did not die away, but it became more tolerable. He could feel pinpricks of pain as John's gentle fingers found tears in the delicate skin here and there, and then the soothing numbness of the Germolene. At some point John must have left to go and get some cold, damp cloths from the kitchen, but by now he was so exhausted, so overcome by the tingling goodness trembling in his wings, so thankful for John, that he barely noticed him leave.

He half-knew that he was dozing off on the sofa, but for once he couldn't be bothered to stop sleep overwhelming him. He was vaguely aware that John was draping a blanket over him, and tried to murmur a "thank you", but he wasn't sure whether the words ever actually made it out of his mouth, or whether he just thought them.

Just before he fell asleep, he thought he heard John whisper, "You're beautiful."

Author's Note: I do hope you're pleased with the speed of my updating, because normally I never do it nearly so fast - finished my coursework during my History lesson, so had about an hour to work on this :) I think the next chapter will just be a short one from John's POV, but after that I'm completely open to suggestions as have no idea where I'm going with this – only just skirting the outskirts at the moment but we will arrive in SlashCity sooner or later... Anyway, any ideas for future chapters are perfectly welcome, and I want to know your favourite bits again! :) Thank you for all the lovely reviews! xxx

PS. Not sure if you people have Germolene, wherever you are – it's just a pink cream stuff that's antiseptic and got a bit of local anaesthetic in it :)


	4. Chapter 4

John looked down at Sherlock's peaceful, sleeping body, and exhaled slowly. He still couldn't even contemplate the fact that this might all be _real_. Real people didn't have _wings_.

Then again, real people weren't like Sherlock Holmes.

He wanted so much to run his hands over the smooth, sleek feathers (the half-forgotten knowledge of what the single feather had felt like in his hand acted only as a tantalising memory), but he knew he had to restrain himself, for Sherlock's sake. The expression of terror that had passed over his features momentarily when John had asked him if anyone had touched his wings had been heartbreaking. John couldn't bear to think of what he must have gone through, or for how long Sherlock had kept it bottled up inside himself.

He had seemed to appreciate the hug earlier, but John had no idea whether that was over the line of "appropriate" for Sherlock. Hell, he didn't even know if Sherlock _had_ a line.

He glanced down at him again, and then averted his gaze again quickly, hoping to avoid thinking about how ethereally beautiful the man was. Too late. There was no denying it – the sight of Sherlock Holmes topless was enough to make anyone's legs tremble. Of course, he was too thin, but that was nothing some regular decent meals wouldn't sort out (John was determined to get him to eat more, looking at those ribs), and it was made up for by that perfect, smooth, alabaster skin, like sculptured marble. Sherlock's chest was hairless and his stomach and lean arms were toned without being bulky with muscle. His pale, intense, chiselled face (dear God, those _cheekbones_) was relaxed, his lips very slightly parted. _Don't think about his lips, for Christ's sake! _Those rebellious, inky curls tumbled around his ears, and John wanted to run his fingers through them so badly it hurt.

Yes, there was no denying his body alone was attractive. But _Jesus Christ_, who knew that a pair of wings could make anyone so impossibly, irresistibly _gorgeous_? He looked like an angel – a sinfully attractive fallen angel, who had been flung from heaven only to land perfectly on the sofa of 221B. John could hardly bring himself to look at the wings - the urge to bury his face into those soft-looking feathers was terribly strong. Layers upon layers of that delicate plumage – and not one feather was identical to its neighbour. There was deep chestnut, auburn, cream, chocolate, copper, dark grey, sienna, gold, rust, snow-white, ochre, beige, russet, ebony, bronze, sandy brown, fawn, jet black, and other colours whose names he had no idea of. They had a far greater horizontal span than their height, which was comparatively small, unlike in the traditional pictures of angels that John had seen.

On an impulse, he pulled his laptop towards him (partly to distract himself from staring at Sherlock), and typed in "winged humans". There were websites on apparent sightings in the US, the appearance of human/bird hydrids in mythology from around the world, fictional winged characters, and even an article on how it was absolutely impossible for humans to have wings. John didn't even bother to read that one. He did, however, find that Sherlock's wings were similar to those of Angel from the X-Men (which he had read enthusiastically as a child), but he decided that the character was unlikely to have been based on actual research of winged humans.

His eyes drifted back to Sherlock, and he realised once again that he was in deep, deep trouble. Fighting the urge to bash his head on the coffee table, he tried to remind himself that falling for his deranged, half-naked, vulnerable, asexual, genius, _winged_ flatmate was really an extremely bad idea.

_Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is very short and more than a bit rubbish, but I thought since winged-Sherlock was so damn self-critical, you hadn't really got a description of him in his full winged glory. And who better to provide it than his doting flatmate? ;) Anyway, plot will return next chapter, provided I don't get too much homework! And thank you so so much for your reviews – they've been so lovely that I swear you've broken my heart, put it back together again, and persuaded it to do a little stupid dance of happiness :D Seriously, I really really appreciate it – and I'd really love a few more if you have the time :) xxx _


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5! Sorry sorry sorry for delay – see note at bottom!

Warnings: Mild bad language again

_John leaned forwards, and his lips touched Sherlock's - gentle, warm and soft. Sherlock moaned and pressed closer to him, wanting to feel more of John's skin on his. John's fingers were tangled in Sherlock's hair, a pleasant tugging sensation teasing his scalp as their mouths met again. And John's hands were gliding over his shoulder blades, and then his fingers were _touching _his feathers, and…_

Sherlock woke, and spent a moment contemplating the cold sweeping disappointment that flooded him as he realised he'd only been dreaming about John. Not to mention the burn of shame that he'd been fantasizing about poor John at all, who really deserved better than a winged freak lusting after him.

As was his habit, he took a few seconds to determine where he was, without opening his eyes. He was unusually warm, and comfortable. By the feel of the leather beneath him, he was lying on the sofa downstairs. There was also a pleasant, reassuring, homely smell that he couldn't quite place.

Sherlock opened his eyes, confirmed that all was as it should be, sat up triumphantly, spread his wings for an early morning stretch, and cuffed John, who had been dozing at the other end of the sofa, over the head with them. The pleasant smell was suddenly explained. John sat up at once, startled, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Wha…? Sh'lock?"

For one terrible moment, Sherlock thought that the previous evening had all been a dream, and that he had just inadvertently revealed his wings to John – his stomach swooped to his feet. But then he spotted the Germolene on the coffee table and reality reasserted itself. He allowed himself a brief smile, but was distracted by John yawning loudly. "You should have gone up to bed," he informed John curtly. "You'll have a…" John sat up, groaning in pain. "…. Bad back."

"Well, you're right about that," John grumbled, standing and hobbling to the kitchen. "Tea? Coffee"

"Hm," Sherlock said, which he knew John knew by now meant: "yes, coffee". No "please", of course. He had already pulled out his phone and was anxiously checking it for texts from Lestrade – he could really do with a case to take his mind off these accursed dreams about John.

John pattered back in from the kitchen a few minutes later, handing Sherlock his favourite dark blue mug. Sherlock always drank strong black coffee first thing in the mornings. John drank very milky, very sugary tea, all the way through the day.

Sherlock was halfway through composing a message to Lestrade demanding to know whether there were any new cases, when John coughed quietly, obviously wanting Sherlock's attention. Sherlock spared him a glance.

"Did you… sleep well?" John asked cautiously. Sherlock's heartbeat accelerated at once – dear god, please let him not have said anything in his sleep…

"Fine," he said shortly, trying to finish the message to Lestrade.

John began to speak again, but at that moment Sherlock's phone chirped and vibrated in his hand, and he jerked it to his ear at once. "Lestrade… Don't bother enquiring about my wellbeing; we both know that's not the reason you called… Yes… Yes… We should be ready to leave in fifteen minutes… See you there."

He snapped the phone shut and gave John a jubilant grin. "Another case! Fantastic! A robbery and a possible kidnapping!"

John looked resigned to his fate. "Fifteen minutes?"

"Quite enough time for a shower and to get dressed, John, but you might have to skip breakfast. It won't kill you."

John sighed in despair. "Brilliant."

Sherlock found he was grinning again, and suddenly John was standing in front of him, and his hands were on his shoulders, and his brown eyes were staring deep in Sherlock's. More importantly, his hands were so close to Sherlock's wings that he could feel the tingling already spreading through them, and he suddenly felt a little breathless. If he were to lean forwards another few inches, and adjust his wings, then John's hands would be…

"Last night," John said evenly, and his face was serious again. "I just wanted to say – it must have taken a lot of courage. And I'm glad… glad you told me."

Then a quick pat on the shoulder, and John had gone to get in the shower quickly before Sherlock could commandeer the bathroom first. Sherlock was left standing in the lounge alone, trying to work out a way to stop his heart beating so rapidly.

xxxxx

Sherlock's phone chirped again when they were in the taxi. A message from Mycroft.

_**Are you sure telling John was the right decision? MH**_

Sherlock huffed in irritation. He didn't bother to ask how Mycroft knew – he probably either had had their flat bugged again (Sherlock had disposed of the last lot of devices in the most imaginative ways he could think of, with rather explosive results) or had psychology experts watching them emerge from the flat and analysing their body language. Sherlock was at least glad that he was choosing to text rather than call – either he was actually being considerate so Sherlock could avoid answering awkward questions from John, or he had had more dental work done. Sherlock hoped the latter. Mycroft in pain was an appealing idea.

_It's Dr. Watson to you. Yes. None of your business anyway. SH_

The reply was almost immediate – Mycroft was obviously taking a break from sorting out the situation in Libya just to text his little brother, though Sherlock felt more irritated than flattered.

_**Possessive, aren't we? Intriguing. Why did you tell him? MH**_

Sherlock pursed his lips.

_They've been aching and I wanted to be able to stretch them out in the flat. SH. P.S. Am not possessive._

"Tell me about the case, then," John said comfortably. Sherlock risked a glance at him. His sandy hair was still damp from the shower, and he smelled slightly of fruity shampoo. Sherlock had accidentally ordered 6 crates of it while inebriated – as part of a case, of course. Then he had deliberately (and stealthily) ordered a few more once he found out just how deliciously it complemented John's natural smell.

"Wealthy couple – Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery (they're the joint heads of some fancy business corporation) woke up this morning to find £300,000 of jewellery stolen from their safe, and their six-year-old Abigail missing."

"Shit," John said quietly. John was always stunned and upset when children were involved in their cases. "What do you think…?"

"It's always extremely unwise to theorise without sufficient data, John – I've told you before. You end up altering the facts to fit your theories, rather than your theories to fit the facts."

His phone heralded the arrival of a new message.

**Don't be ridiculous, little brother. You are undeniably extremely possessive. And could you not have arranged to buy your own flat? You have not been short of income, to my knowledge – your bank balance has been very healthy. Or should I arrange to send some more money from the trust fund? MH**

_John is my friend, and I wanted to be honest with him. Don't need money. SH_

** Honesty? Whatever next, Sherlock? Are you planning to notify him of your infatuation with him, then? MH  
**Sherlock didn't bother replying.

xxxxx

While Lestrade threw facts, figures, times, alibis, and pearl-and-diamond necklace valuations at Sherlock, John took a moment to examine the rooms they were striding through. At least, Sherlock was striding, his long coat flapping about him. Lestrade was trotting, and John was being forced to attempt a semi-dignified jog to keep up. High-ceilinged and elegant, the rooms were sophisticated and old-fashioned – not rooms for a young child to grow up in. The house was an odd one, a supposedly stylish blend of modern and traditional – the rooms arranged in a circle around a central courtyard.

"John!" Sherlock snapped, clicking his fingers without looking round. "Keep up, will you – I'm sure the architecture's not crucial to the case."

Rolling his eyes, John increased his pace, but at that moment the well-lit corridor they had been hurrying down opened out into the largest room they had seen yet – a massive ballet studio, two walls set with mirrors, one with photographs of famous ballerinas, and the last a huge window looking out on the courtyard beneath. In one corner, an attractive, long-legged woman with voluptuous curls of blonde hair framing her face was clutching a pair of tiny ballet shoes to her chest. She was wearing a white blouse, a dark grey jacket and a professional pencil skirt – clearly ready to go to work when she found her daughter missing. A pair of extremely high black heels were tossed carelessly beside her. Her face was streaked with badly running mascara, her eyes dark with the smudges where she had rubbed the tears away.

Her husband was standing awkwardly at the other end of the room, hands in his pockets, staring blankly out over the courtyard. They would be a very attractive couple, John realised, when not ravaged by grief. Ian Montgomery was tall, with a classically good-looking face, dark hair, a subtle, carefully groomed beard, and very dark, intense eyes.

Both looked up when Sherlock entered the room – it just seemed natural that their eyes would be drawn to him, just as everyone's were. And he was looking his best – his piercing pale blue-green-grey eyes alight with the excitement of the case. His entire being seemed to crackle with electricity. Lestrade coughed awkwardly, and introduced him. "Um... This is Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective, who..."  
"Whatever your fee is, I'll double it," Ian Montgomery put in.

John fully expected Sherlock's normal response, which was that if the case thoroughly interested him, he would happily do it for nothing, and if it didn't, then no matter how much you offered to pay him, he would utterly refuse to investigate. Naturally this made paying the rent a slightly frustrating business.

However, Sherlock did neither of these things. Instead, astonishingly, he gave a smile that could only be described as _coy_.

"I'm sure that my standard fee will be quite sufficient," he murmured, with a glint of his eyes and a flicker of his lips.

John gazed at him, open-mouthed, and he was vaguely aware of Lestrade's face possessing a similar expression. If he didn't know better, he would have said that Sherlock was… Was _attracted _to the man. An unexpected wave of jealousy coursed through him, and he missed the rest of Lestrade's spiel about setting up some kind of incident room in the study next-door. Before John knew it, they had left the ballet studio and were standing in a smaller, cluttered room, full of books, papers and Sergeant Donovan.

"Morning, freak," she snapped at Sherlock. Lestrade gave her a reproving stare, but John felt like slapping her (ungentlemanly though it would be) on Sherlock's behalf.

"Sally…" Sherlock drawled, his mind clearly on other things, his fingers tracing the spines of the books on the shelves behind the desk. Jesus Christ, his voice was so deep and smooth – it was like drinking melted chocolate, without the sickly aftertaste. "I can see you've been attending to Anderson's floors again, though at least you remembered to bring your own deodorant this time… Oh no, my mistake – you used his wife's. Good job she's away on holiday."

Donovan's gasp of indignation was followed by Lestrade's incredulous question – "Sherlock, what the hell were you doing in there? If I… Well… It was almost like you were…"

"Flirting?" Sherlock offered carelessly. "Hmmm… I must confess that was my intention."

"What?" Lestrade and John asked simultaneously.

Sherlock spun around to face them, apparently frustrated at their density. "Well, it's patently obvious their marriage is a sham, but more interestingly, our Mr. Montgomery appears to be not only an enthusiastic serial adulterer, but also homosexual. His wife is almost certainly aware of this, but whether she tolerates it to a degree or is harbouring a deep resentment is not yet evident."

John blinked rapidly for several seconds. "That's… You're…"

"Brilliant, I know," Sherlock finished for him, with a slight upward quirk of his lips. "Anyway, I wish to interview Mr. Montgomery in private, if at all possible."

Lestrade spluttered a little. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Sherlock?"

"A perfectly good one. One is far more likely to reveal important information when distracted, and I should hope that I would provide a sufficient distraction for Mr. Montgomery. I presume the rest of your officers and the forensic teams are searching for points of entry, places the child might feasibly be hiding (ridiculous, she's certainly not in the house), etcetera, Lestrade?"  
"Yeah… Do you think the parents are involved, then?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "That is what we must find out."

He moved towards the door, but John placed a hand on his arm. "Look, Sherlock, I'm not sure about this," he confessed. "This man might be dangerous, are you sure…?"

"John, I assure you I can be more than capable of defending myself," Sherlock replied. "Now, if you wouldn't mind escorting Mrs. Montgomery elsewhere, then I would be most grateful. If I conduct the interview in the ballet studio, then you would be able to watch from across the courtyard, if you were so inclined."

xxxxx

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was standing beside Ian Montgomery, trying to appear both hesitant and human. It was harder than he anticipated.

"So… erm… Mr. Montgomery, when was it that you…"

"Call me Ian, please," he said shortly, and turned to face Sherlock with a frankly appraising stare. Sherlock was, of course, not an emotional man, except where his damnable flatmate was concerned, but he still felt a stirring of disgust that this man could be aware that his daughter was missing and yet still behave in this way.

It was then that Montgomery placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, and he felt the first stirrings of panic begin to coil in his stomach.

xxxxx

Lestrade and John were seated in an elegant dining room across the courtyard, watching the scene playing out in the ballet studio, and John was getting more and more agitated. "I don't like this," he said, for the third time. He glanced up at Lestrade, who seemed unfazed. "Don't you think…?"

"He knows what he's doing," Lestrade said confidently, but John wasn't so sure. He bit his lip, knowing how irritated Sherlock would be if they burst in and ruined his interview with Montgomery.

He saw one of Montgomery's questing hands reach Sherlock's back, and saw the flicker of fear that passed through the younger man's face. That was all it took – he turned and ran through the house towards the ballet studio.

xxxxx

Sherlock swallowed and tried to focus, but all he could sense was the long, cold hands brushing at his back. Apparently, Montgomery took his breathy gasps as encouragement, and gave a predatory smile.

His hands were intruding, unpleasant, not like John's had been. John's were warm, and gentle, and careful, and the tingles they elicited down his spine had been delicious and calming, rather than fearful. Any moment now Montgomery was going to feel the unusual structure of Sherlock's shoulder blades, and realise, or question, and…

Montgomery took a step forwards, and one hand glided up beneath Sherlock's shirt.

Three things happened at once.

As hand met feathers, Montgomery swore in surprise and shock and recoiled.

John, closely followed by an outraged-looking Lestrade, burst into the ballet studio.

And Sherlock's mind went utterly blank.

xxxxx

"Get away from him, you bastard!" John snarled, and dealt Montgomery a smashing blow across the face – the taller man stumbled backwards, clutching his nose.

"I didn't do anything!" he protested, swearing and reaching for a clean tissue to wipe away the scarlet drops of blood. "The freak was all up for it, and then he just..."

John punched him again for good measure, feeling the dull burn of triumph as Montgomery reeled backwards, and then dropped to his knees beside Sherlock. The detective was huddled in the foetal position, hands clenched into fists, his eyes staring and blank, his face frozen in fear. John felt a terrible tug of sympathy in his chest as he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

_Author's Note: I'm so so sorry it's taken me so long to update, but I've had so much schoolwork to do it's untrue, as well as fighting off a nasty case of the dreaded WRITER'S BLOCK that threatened to finish this story prematurely. So sorry if the second half is really rubbish, since it was written in the main without my muse! Also, the idea for the whole suspect-getting-too-friendly-with-Sherlock came from the wonderful Pikeru's Angel, who gave me the exact words, "S_herlock and John are on a case, and someone is basically accidentally molesting Sherlock (via his wings, obviously) while flirting with him. He doesn't say anything, but John notices him getting uncomfortable with the situation and basically helps him out." _Hope you liked it, Piki, and all credit goes to you for that! Also sorry for any typos since I haven't had much time to check it over!_

_Please please give me a review to inspire me to carry on and thank you all so much for reading :) xxx_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6. So sorry this has taken so long – apologies at the bottom!

Warnings: Mild bad language

Disclaimer (I think I forgot to do one last time, so this counts for both): NOT MINE, NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST. Enjoy!

_Darkness. Locked in the cupboard again. Curled up in a ball, because his feet were cold. Wings aching. Hands cold too, fingers white and numb. Waiting, wanting to be let out into the light again, but afraid, because he knew what that would mean._

_ Light blinded him, and he was pulled out into a dim room that was still bright in comparison to the cupboard. Strong hands gripped his arms, nails digging in, and he groaned in pain. Had to keep quiet. Had to keep quiet. _

_ Not quiet enough. A cuff about the head knocked him to the ground, and then _hands _on his wings, and he was shuddering and retching and squirming away from the touch, and then there was an angry snarl from his father, and he was yanked to his feet, and then feathers were falling to the ground, and he was sobbing and he could barely stand, and…_

"Sherlock?"

_A voice. A friendly, warm voice, like someone had opened a curtain in the gloomy room. He wriggled helplessly towards the light, reaching forwards._

"Can you hear me?"

_Yes, he could hear them, could feel the evil memories finally sliding away, that horrible room fading…_

Until he was once more lying in the ballet studio, and John's concerned face was sliding into focus, his face crinkled with worry. "Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you OK?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, willing the memories to leave him. He was away that he was clutching John's hand, and let it drop. He remembered talking to Ian Montgomery, his hands… He wanted to wash, to be clean, to scrub the feeling away...

He shuddered again, and grabbed at John's hand once more, fighting back nausea. John squeezed his hand, and Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. He felt like he wanted to lie here next to John on this pale, polished floor forever…

"Is he OK?" Lestrade's voice asked, and Sherlock became aware of the rest of his surroundings again. He sat up slowly, his head swimming slightly, and vaguely registered that Ian Montgomery had blood running down his face.

"I'm taking him home," John said firmly, and Sherlock shook his head equally determinedly, struggling to stand.

"No… The case…"

"Sherlock," John said very quietly, so the others couldn't hear, placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, and forcing him to meet his eyes. "You've just had what looked like a bad flashback – bad enough to render you unaware to anything else around you. There's no way I'm letting you go gallivanting around on a case like that. Especially when you're going to have to deal with that bastard Montgomery."

Sherlock's lips switched slightly despite himself at the vehemence of John's tone.

"Fine, John, if you insist."

"Wait a moment!" Lestrade said, looking affronted. "Look, you can't just go! What about..."

Sherlock smiled, despite his lingering nausea, because he just loved to see John angry.

"Let me make one thing clear, Inspector," John said quietly. "To hell with the case – I am taking Sherlock home. Now. And maybe, in the future, you could solve your own cases, without dragging Sherlock in to be molested by some jumped-up bastard like _him._" He pointed an accusing finger at Montgomery, and it was amazing how a man who could be so gentle and kind and quiet managed to radiate so much menace. Sherlock could have sworn that Montgomery and Lestrade recoiled slightly.

"Come on, Sherlock. We're going."

xxxxx

The cab ride home was quiet, as Sherlock was feeling unusually tired, especially since he had enjoyed the best night's sleep he had had for years the previous night. Maybe his body, realising that adequate sleep was now actually an option, was craving it desperately before the opportunity vanished.

As they climbed the stairs to 221B, Sherlock couldn't help feeling somewhat nervous. He didn't know whether John was going to ask about what had happened and, more worryingly, whether he was actually going to answer John's questions or not. Normally, he would just brush aside his concern, but he was seriously considering…

He sat down on the sofa carefully, because his wings were still aching from where Montgomery had touched them, as if in protest at the alien fingers that had brushed them. Strangely, he didn't think of John's fingers as alien – they were as warm and comforting as anything could be, even through the gloves. He wondered if John would mind if he took off his shirt again to stretch them out – ideally he wanted to scrub them, remove all trace of Montgomery from them…

John (making tea, of course), poked his head round the door of the kitchen. "You can take your shirt off, if you want. They don't bother me, you know."

Sherlock allowed him a grin once John had disappeared again. People said that he was a mind reader, but what they didn't realise that his so-called "mind-reading" was just a combination of careful deductions and precise reasoning. John's kind of mind reading wasn't something that could be learnt – it was instinctual, and Sherlock loved it.

Nevertheless feeling a little awkward, Sherlock removed his jacket and his shirt, flinging them unceremoniously to the floor, and stretched out his wings with a sigh of contentment. They were aching and stiff – even more so than usual.

John returned with the tea and Sherlock caught the grin on his face as he saw the wings again. The very thought that his wings could bring such a smile to John's face made him feel warm inside (clichéd as it was). John shook his head, still beaming. "I still can't quite believe it – they're phenomenal..."

"You said that before," Sherlock commented, taking his tea, and reaching around to his back awkwardly to try and smooth out the ruffled feathers. He couldn't preen his feathers as a bird could, and it irked him – he liked them to be clean and tidy.

John, still staring, said, apparently without thinking, "I could always do that."

Sherlock stiffened, because the thought of John – or more specifically, John's hands – touching his feathers was enough to cause his spine to feel like it was melting in anticipation. Unfortunately, John clearly thought the stiffening was a negative reaction, because he started to babble, "Sorry, sorry, stupid idea… Didn't mean to… I would never… Sorry, I know when he… Shit, I shouldn't have said anything…"

Sherlock put out his hand and touched John's arm. It took surprising courage. "If you could…"

John smiled awkwardly. "If you're sure – I'll go get the gloves."

He returned a moment later, and then hesitated again. "Are you sure – I don't want to hurt you. I mean, earlier…"

"It's different, with you," Sherlock said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

John looked puzzled, then interested, then flattered. "Oh. Well, that's good."

He took another step forwards, and then went back into the kitchen. Sherlock's heart plummeted. John had decided against it, he was disgusted, repulsed, he couldn't bear to even look at him. He felt guilty, appalled with himself for asking John to do it, why would he want to anyway? A cold rush of misery spread through him…

xxxxx

John came back into the living room, carrying a bowl of warm, soapy water. "You said something about washing, when you woke up," he said awkwardly. "I thought maybe..."

He paused. Sherlock's face had been fixed in an expression of utter wretchedness, but at John's words, he lifted his head, and there was a look of such despair and gratefulness that it broke John's heart.

When John and Harry were little, they had found a kitten on the street that some other kids had been terrifying, pelting it with stones. One of its legs was broken, and it was a pitiful, whining mess of fur and blood. John had picked it up in his coat to keep it close to the warmth of his chest, and the way the fear in the big brown eyes had been replaced with love was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

The look in Sherlock's eyes was the same – a tentative, pathetic hopefulness that John wasn't going to shun him or, worse, hurt him. It was all John could do not to take him in his arms. It was so horribly, horrifically sad, that this beautiful, delicate creature could have been damaged so badly – like the desecration of a something sacred, divine.

He dunked a relatively clean tea towel in the water and Sherlock shuffled round so John could reach his wings. It was already becoming some sort of strange ritual. John adjusted his gloves, and then asked, gently, "Are you sure about this?"

For once, there was no sarcasm, no smart answering-back. "Please," Sherlock said, so quietly that it was little more than a soft exhalation.

John started by running his gloved hands along the top of the wing, feeling each delicate bone and sinew. Sherlock gave a long, contented sigh. Before, he had been nervous and stiff, muscles as taut as a bowstring – now the tension was leaking out of him faster than John could marvel at it. It was amazing that John could see him like this – eyes heavy-lidded, languorous and relaxed.

John straightened out the ruffled feathers, and washed them carefully, unsure of exactly what he was doing, but hoping that the willingness to help would compensate for any lack of skill. When he had finished, Sherlock murmured, "Thank you", and stood, stretching out his wings to their full span, and then retracting them again with a soft sigh. Walking briskly to a pile of papers and test-tubes, he managed to unearth one of his shirts, which John saw had slits cut into the back of it. He pulled it on, letting his wings slid through the slits, and then snatched up his violin and went to sit next to the window.

John thought that this might be his cue to go, but if it was, he ignored it, his eyes remaining fixed on Sherlock. He was staring out of the window, and John wondered if he were imagining being out there, flying free in the open air.

Without turning around, Sherlock spoke. "What you did – thanks." The words sounded awkward in that rich baritone, but John understood they meant a lot. "No one's ever…"

He cleared his throat, and resumed his gazing out of the window.

John just watched him, wondering what…

"You're wondering what I was thinking about when Montgomery touched me, aren't you?" Sherlock asked.

John was, as usual, impressed. "How did you…?"

"Please John, it was hardly a massive leap for someone of my intelligence. It would be what I was wondering if our circumstances were reversed."  
"What were you thinking about then?" John asked, hoping that direct questions would make it easier for Sherlock to answer, without feeling the need to elaborate if he didn't want to.

Sherlock paused again, one of his long, thin, pale fingers tracing a raindrop that was trickling down the outside of the window. Finally, he said quietly, "My father."

John stayed silent, willing Sherlock to continue.

"He wasn't the pleasantest of men," Sherlock said shortly.

"Did he…?" John asked quietly, leaving the question unfinished.

Sherlock didn't look up, pale face lit by the grey London daylight pouring in through the grimy glass. "They didn't want another child," he said presently. "I wasn't planned. Mycroft was seven. And even if they had wanted another child, they would have wanted me to be clever and perfect, like Mycroft. I wasn't. I was bad."

The strange, childlike words somehow chilled John.

"When Mycroft went to university, he had his wings cut off," Sherlock said bluntly, still watching the raindrops race down the window. "We used to fly together, before. That's when I first began to hate him. He called me a freak." His voice was venomous – bitter.

"Bastard," John said under his breath, which made Sherlock smile again for a moment.

"That's when Father started to get more angry," he continued, the smile fading as quickly as it had come. "His alcoholism spiralled out of control, and then my mother began to get ill."

He played a few experimental notes on his violin, refusing to meet John's eyes. John took a cautious step towards him.

"Are your parents still…?"

Sherlock dragged his bow across the strings, making the violin give a pained, jarring squeal. "No. My father hanged himself in prison while serving a life sentence for murdering my mother. I was twelve."

Another discordant scream of notes.

"Shit, Sherlock…"

Stunned into silence, John went and sat down next to him, placing a cautious hand on his knee. Sherlock's jaw was clenched, piercing eyes burning a hole in the windowsill.

"I came home from school – they were arguing. She had been ill in bed, but they were fighting at the top of the stairs." His voice was flat, emotionless. "Father… My father grabbed her and pushed her. She fell down the stairs – there was blood and her legs were… they were _wrong_…" His face twisted, as if replicating the confusion and pain of that day. "I called the ambulance, but I couldn't… I couldn't…"

Without thinking, John leant forward and held him tightly, Sherlock's wings shifting out of the way. For a moment John thought that he was going to struggle away, but he didn't, burying his face in John's jumper, and letting out what sounded like a shaky sob.

They sat there for several minutes, until Sherlock gave a hoarse laugh, and said, in a muffled approximation of his normal voice, "John, could you send a text for me?"

"Of course," John said tactfully, withdrawing and going to fetch Sherlock's phone from the discarded jacket on the floor. When he turned back, Sherlock's face was calm, clear and un-tear-stained, fingers gently tweaking at the strings of his violin. "Who to?"

"Lestrade."

"Mm hm... OK, off you go."

"Check mother's dressing table. If waterproof mascara present, arrest her. Sign it SH, of course."

"Right," John said dutifully, tapping out and sending the message. Then he paused. "Wait a moment – _what_?"

Sherlock gave one of his sudden grins. "Honestly, John, the problem should have been simple enough for someone of even your intellect to be able to solve. Mrs. Montgomery has known for some time that her husband has been having a string of homosexual affairs – in fact, she is planning to leave him as soon as she can (I'm sure if you were to check their bank details, you would see a steady removal of money from their joint account). However, she wishes to punish him first – make him suffer. What better way to do so than to arrange to have their child kidnapped, and force him to pay a large sum of ransom money, which will not only financially cripple him, but will also give her the money she needs to escape?"

"Right…" John said, still trying frantically to keep up. "But the waterproof mascara… I don't understand…"

Sherlock gave out of a pained sigh. "Oh come _on_, it's not complex! If she has arranged her daughter's kidnapping then naturally she will not be crying in fear for the child's safety – she knows little… whateverhernameis…"

"Abigail," John supplied.

"She knows that little Abigail is perfectly safe – so no tears. But she can't seem unconcerned – of course not. So she must conceal her lack of tears. A combination of non-waterproof mascara and a few eye drops would do the job admirably. So therefore if Lestrade and his colleagues discover waterproof mascara on her dressing table (which they no doubt will – important businesswomen cannot afford to be seem with unsightly smeared eye make-up), then this will prove that she used a different, unusual type this morning as a deliberate ruse in order to deceive us – hence, she is guilty."

"Brilliant," John said, awestruck. "You are brilliant."

Sherlock grinned. "I know I am." But the flash in his eyes told John that he was glad of the compliment, nonetheless.

_Author's Note: Ouch – seriously sorry it's taken so long, once more fighting off the writer's block :/ Next chapter = John and Sherlock randomly going on holiday so Sherlock can do some flying! Forget the plot (who needs one anyway?) I'm now on my Easter holidays and though I'm supposed to be revising for my GCSEs hopefully I'll be able to spend more time doing this! :)_

_Please give me a review and tell me your favourite bits – they seriously do inspire me to keep going (SummerQuill's review persuaded me to finish this off earlier – thank you!) Love all you guys, and thanks for all the encouragement and support – hope you enjoyed! :D xxx_

_PS. Sorry the mystery was rubbish. Couldn't be bothered to think of a particularly inspiring ending!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7! Forgive me for the wait!_

"Sherlock," John said, looking up from his laptop. "I've just had a good idea."

Sherlock, for reasons best known to himself, was hanging upside-down off the arm of the sofa. "Hn?" he replied, apparently engrossed in some criminology textbook.

"We could go on holiday."

Sherlock groaned loudly (he really did behave like a child sometimes). "_Why_, John?"

"Well… Because a holiday's a good chance to relax, to have a break… We could go somewhere – rent one of those little cottages in the country somewhere. It might do you good to get out of London for a bit."

Sherlock only gave another pained groan.

"Come on," John persisted. "When was the last time we went on holiday?"

"February."

"That was for a case! We went to Brussels for _six hours_, Sherlock! And we spent most of that locked in that hotel room!"

Sherlock gave an upside-down smile at the memory. "November, then."

"No. We spent three days chasing that Norwegian GP through Italy. No relaxing, no sight-seeing – I slept for a grand total of five hours! Over three days, Sherlock! That was not a holiday!"

Sherlock snorted in irritation. "Fine, October."

John thought for a moment. "We didn't even leave London in October!"

Sherlock shrugged. "We stayed at that B&B in Oxford Street for a few days when we were looking for that poisoner, if you recall."

John rolled his eyes. "You've just proved my point. You never stop working and so neither do I – chasing after you, trying to get you to eat and sleep…"

It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "I don't ask you to do any of that, John. But if you _insist_..."

"Good," John said cheerfully, tapping away at his laptop. "I'll find us a nice holiday let somewhere… How about Norfolk?"

"Hm."

"You sound enthusiastic."  
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John."

"Like that stops _you_… Fine, Scotland?"

"Too far. And it's cold."

"OK then… What about Wales?"

"My family and I used to go to Wales."

John looked up curiously. "Was that a reason _for _going to Wales, or against?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Neither, I was just saying."

John looked at him again. The loose, white shirt he had put on earlier complemented his pale skin perfectly, and as he was hanging half off the sofa, it had slipped slightly, revealing his divinely flat, smooth stomach. The urge to reach out and touch that silky skin was overpowering. His ebony curls were nearly brushing the floor. His pale eyes were scanning the pages of his book rapidly, alive and bright with intelligence. His lean face was perhaps a little more flushed than was customary, due to his unusual position, and John couldn't stop his mind wandering to other situations in which he might persuade Sherlock to reveal that delicate blush.

Such thoughts couldn't help but bring a blush to John's own cheeks, and Sherlock glanced up from his reading, obviously sensing his scrutiny. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing." There was a slight pause. "Apart from the feathers, you do look a little like a bat in that position, you know."

Sherlock's upside-down smile flashed again, and he twitched his wings in response. John could feel the little draught of air that brushed his legs. Realising he was still staring, he got back to his Internet searching.

Unfortunately, nearly all the holiday properties for two were listed as "perfect for a romantic getaway!", which was more than a little embarrassing, but John tried to ignore it. He wanted somewhere quiet, out of the way – somewhere Sherlock could fly without anyone seeing him. That meant no terraced houses in towns, no city apartments, no properties on the same site as three or four others. Not to mention they wanted somewhere relatively cheap.

Finally, John found it. "Sherlock, look at this!"

Sherlock gave a great flap of his wings, which propelled him back into a sitting position. John snorted. "Show off."

Sherlock grinned again and came over to sit beside John, tucking his wings in behind him. John tilted the laptop towards him. Sherlock gave the small cottage a calculating glance, and then nodded in gloomy acceptance. "When are we heading off on this _holiday_ then?" he asked, as if John was proposing they should go to their own execution.

"Well, if I call the owner now…"John checked his watch. "They're unlikely to get any other last-minute bookings – we might be able to go tomorrow!"  
Sherlock looked stricken. "Tomorrow?"

"Is it really going to take you so long to pack?" John teased.

Sherlock's feathers fluffed out in annoyance, and John laughed. "You're like an overgrown sparrow puffing yourself up to look more threatening."

Sherlock looked affronted, and then amused, ruffling his feathers out as much as he could, and curling his wings around himself, until he was a fluffy mass of indignation. John fell about laughing. "Fine," Sherlock said with an air of one resigned to his fate. "Where is it?"

"Pembrokeshire – near the sea."

Sherlock's agonised expression returned. "But John, that's a five hour drive!"

"We'll take the train."

John went to fetch his phone, and came back to find Sherlock texting furiously.

"What are you doing?"

"Asking Lestrade if there's any case if he can give me immediately to prevent my being dragged off on this _holiday_."

John smiled slightly, and began scrolling down the webpage to find the owner's number. A few moments later, the chirp of Sherlock's phone announced Lestrade's reply. Sherlock read it, huffed in disgust, and passed it over to John.

_No, Sherlock – piss off and enjoy yourself. GL. PS. Tell John sorry for being an arse earlier._

John grinned. "See, even Lestrade thinks it's a good idea."

xxxxx

"Haven't you got any other shoes?"

Sherlock looked down at his shoes with an expression of annoyance. "No. What's wrong with these ones?"

"What's wrong with them? Well – nothing – if you're running about through London looking like you're on your way to a corporate dinner do. But they're not exactly practical for Wales."

"Hm." Sherlock glared at his feet again. "Well, I'll just have to borrow your shoes then."

John sighed in exasperation. "And what about shirts? I mean, the silk ones are hardly suitable for Wales, and it may have escaped your notice, but _I'm _not six feet tall."

"I had noticed," Sherlock said placidly, pulling another suit from his wardrobe and eyeing it critically.

John realised that packing was going to take longer than he had originally anticipated.  
xxxxx

Sitting on the train, Sherlock glanced at John's sleeping form again, and wondered if loving someone (dear God, _was _this love?) was always so painful.

That morning Sherlock had been woken by a pleasant tingling hum in his wings. He had fallen asleep on the sofa again (John had told him off, of course) and John's clothed leg had brushed the feathers as he had walked past. They had eaten breakfast together (Sherlock never ate breakfast, but John had looked so happy when he had managed half a piece of toast that it was definitely worth it). Then they'd taken a cab to the train station, which felt strange, because for once they weren't on a case, so there was no excitement and buzz.

Except that there _was _because it was just him and John, and even thinking about it sent a tingle rushing down Sherlock's spine and through every single feather of his wings. Sherlock had deduced anything he could about their fellow passengers, because it made John smile or laugh in admiration. Normally, Sherlock's brain was fizzing with thoughts, ideas and theories – he couldn't stop his mind from leaping from hypothesis to hypothesis in a never-ending cycle of thought. But when he was with John, somehow the background drone of information faded a little. Being with John made him feel warm and safe and still and peaceful. He could stop and laugh and look and touch and hear and smell without his brain spinning into overdrive.

About an hour into the journey most of the other passengers got off at other stations, Sherlock ceased his deductions, and John's eyes had begun to slide closed. Now he was asleep, mouth slightly open, head leaning against the train window. The lines in his face smoothed out when he was asleep – he looked younger, more vulnerable. Sherlock had seen him asleep before, of course, but not quite in this setting – so public, and yet so private, in the near-empty train carriage. He was so close – it would be so easy to lean forwards, to hold John's body in his arms, to touch his lips to John's…

He gave a shuddery exhalation, and tried to remind himself that having these thoughts was a terribly, horribly bad idea.

He wanted to hold John close, feel the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart, the in-out of his chest. He wanted to bury his face in that soft hair, clutch him tight, so tight that no one could ever pull them apart. He wanted to fold his wings about them both, so they were kept safe in their own little world forever. If it meant giving up the cases, then so be it. He would give it all away, for John.

An almost painful tingle of longing shot through his wings and he wriggled them uncomfortably beneath his shirt. Previously, they had rarely troubled him during the day, but being in such close proximity to John was taking its toll.

He glanced over at John again just in time to see him stir a little in his sleep, a small frown creasing his forehead. His head shifted slightly and he mumbled something. Sherlock leaned perilously closer to hear what he was saying.

"No… please… don't…"

Sherlock knew the symptoms of a nightmare when he saw one. He laid his hand gently on John's shoulder. "Erm… John?"

John's face screwed up slightly, and he murmured again. "Bleeding… won't stop…"  
Knowing that what he was doing was ridiculously stupid in his current condition, Sherlock took John's hand. For a moment he could only marvel at the feel of it – cool and soft and dry, tiny calluses and bumps invisible to the naked eye felt clearly on his own skin. Then like a speeding bullet, the image hit him – John's hand, _this hand_, touching his wings, ungloved fingers gently brushing the feathers…

His wings tingling desperately with desire, he tried to concentrate.

"John, it's me."

John stirred again, and then his hand clenched on Sherlock's. John let out a long shaky breath, and then seemed to return to his previous dream-free slumber, snoring gently.

Sherlock let go of his hand slowly, and suddenly realised that John would probably wake up cold, chilled by fear-induced perspiration. Normally, in Baker Street, he would wake up cold and alone (the thought sent a pang to Sherlock's heart), but not today.

Sherlock removed his Belstaff coat and gently laid it over John.

xxxxx

What with several train changes and delays due to leaves on the line ("Leaves on the line?" John had protested. "For Christ's sake, it's April, not bloody October!"), it was nearly four o'clock by the time they reached Pembroke Station.

They caught a cab to the village where they were staying (Sherlock had to tolerate John trying to pronounce the name of it for the entire journey there, and the cab driver looked glad to see them go). Then John insisted on visiting the village shop, to get "supplies" for dinner.

They'd never been shopping together before, since Sherlock generally despised it, but he would have felt stupid standing outside by himself, so he came in too. John pottered up and down the aisles with a shopping basket, murmuring to himself and trying to decide between one or two pints of milk (depending on whether they ate cereal or not).

"Sherlock, what do you want for dinner tonight?"

"Nothing, ideally," Sherlock replied, busy analysing just how many different types of biscuit one small shop could hold.

"You know that's not an option," John said severely. "How about spag bol?"

"Hm."

"Beans on toast?"

"Never eaten it."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? Beans on toast it is."  
Finally John was finished, and they went to the checkout, where an elderly woman was hunched over the counter, reading a celebrity magazine with a headline that proclaimed exclusive inside information on the royal wedding. She raised her head eagerly when she saw them, and beamed. "Good afternoon, dears. You're new around here, aren't you?"

Sherlock left John to deal with her.

"We're just visiting, actually," John answered, placing their purchases in a carrier bag once the old lady had scanned them. "Fairview Cottage – do you know it?"

"Of course, dear – Maureen mentioned just this morning that she'd got a last minute booking." She smiled benevolently at John as he handed over a ten-pound note. "So, where 'ave you travelled from, then?" she continued, handing back his change. "Your accent…"

"London," Sherlock said curtly, seizing one of the plastic bags and John's arm. "Diolch yn fawr."

Once they were out of the shop, Sherlock released John's arm again. John turned to him with his standard expression of exasperation and admiration. "Firstly, that was very rude. And secondly, _you can speak Welsh_?"

"A little," Sherlock said, unusually modestly. "And before you asked, I said 'thank you'."

xxxxx

They hitched a lift to the cottage with a dour old man with five excitable dogs in the boot of his Volvo (Sherlock looked most disapproving), and finally found themselves standing in front of a surprisingly charming (though very small), ivy-covered house about a mile from the rest of the village. John could see the glimmer of the sea on the horizon, and breathed out in contentment.

Catching Sherlock's amused eyes on him, he gave an embarrassed cough, and began looking industriously around on the floor. "Um… Apparently the key's hidden under a little…"

"Here?" Sherlock asked, raising it aloft. He unlocked the door smoothly, and then waved an imperious hand. "After you."

John entered, dumping down his suitcase in the hall and immediately going to explore. He heard Sherlock closing the door behind him.

There was a small, old-fashioned kitchen, a comfy sitting room with a decent-sized sofa, a bathroom, and one bedroom. With one bed. Damn.

"Hm," Sherlock said from behind him as he stood staring at the double bed. "If people weren't talking before, John, they definitely will be now. You luring me here to the country, to a cottage in the middle of the nowhere with only one bed…"

"I'll sleep on the sofa," John said quickly, flushing, and Sherlock laughed.

xxxxx

Two hours later, after the beans on toast experiment had been pronounced a success ("Surprisingly appetising, John – I must congratulate you…"), Sherlock was bored again.

"I haven't got any signal," he informed John, who was reading a book he'd found under the sofa. "So even if Lestrade has a fascinating case, he won't be able to get hold of me."

John hummed, clearly only half-listening. "You could watch TV?"

"If you make me watch that Midsomer Murders _again_, I will have to murder _you_ personally, John," Sherlock promised, which made John's lips twitch. Which made Sherlock's heart flutter.

John hesitated, fiddling with the pages of his book. "Well, you could always go… um… flying."

John shot him a nervous look, obviously unsure of what Sherlock's response would be.

Sherlock paused, opened his mouth, closed it again. "That's what this has all been about, hasn't it? I've been completely and utterly blind."

John flushed, and shuffled awkwardly. "Well… I mean you don't have to, I just thought if we were out in the middle of nowhere somewhere…"

There was an awkward pause, and then they both spoke at the same time.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to…" "Do you want to…"

They both gave an awkward laugh.

"Do you want to… erm… come?" Sherlock asked, pretending to examine the fabric of the sofa.

"Well… If that's OK with you…"

"I mean, if you don't want to…"

John gave another short laugh. "No… I'd like to."

xxxxxx

They was another small silence, while John waited with baited breath.

"Fine. Good. Good."

They gave another embarrassed laugh, and Sherlock got to his feet.

"Are you going now?" John asked, surprised.

"No – just going to get… erm… changed. I'll wait until twilight – I'll be less likely to be seen."

"OK," John said, trying to sound like he was very chilled about the whole thing. Once Sherlock had gone, he allowed himself a shaky breath. Dear God, he was about to go and watch Sherlock flying. There was no point trying to pretend that was anything but terrified. And excited. And nervous. He held his head in his hands for a moment, trying to think clearly.

"John?"

He glanced up. Sherlock was standing in front of him. He'd changed his shirt (presumably for one with slits in the back for his wings). His face was a little pink (with excitement, perhaps?), though it held a worried expression.

"Are you all right?"

"Um… yeah. Fine." John coughed and stood up, trying to look alert and prepared and not like he'd just been freaking out at the thought of finally seeing Sherlock fly.

"Night's falling quickly. We ought to go now."

"Right. OK."

John went to get his coat, and, as an afterthought, brought a spare coat for Sherlock (would he get cold, after flying?). He pulled on his wellies (Sherlock gave a deep chuckle, which sent his heart thundering embarrassingly fast again), and then took a deep breath, standing by the front door.

"Ready, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you?" John replied seriously.

Sherlock gave that stunning grin that always made John's stomach flip over. "Of course."

_Author's Note: Sorry, sorry, sorry – a week long wait again :/ But, next chapter I promise promise promise will be up soon! And there will be flying! and other good things that I mustn't reveal right now for fear of spoiling the surprise :D (No wingtouching though, I'm saving that for later :P) Sorry this is so rubbish, it's just a buildup to the next one! :) I struggled through the first 1000 words all week, and then wrote the rest in a mad flurry late last night and this morning! Leave a review, tell me your favourite bit, and if you're looking forward to reading the next chapter even a quarter as much as I'm looking forward to writing it, then my mind will be blown with joy! :) Hope you enjoyed!_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8!

Disclaimer: Not mine (sob)

Warnings: Mild bad language again

Kissing (OMG finally!)

and so much fluff that you could actually, like, y'know DROWN IN IT

The air was cool and a slight breeze rustled John's hair as they walked out into the dim light. He could see the newly-appearing blotches of light that showed the village about a mile away as the sun began to sink beneath the horizon. The grass was damp with droplets of dew. He wondered if Sherlock was as nervous as he was.

"Where do you want to… um…?" he asked Sherlock awkwardly.

"Let's walk a bit further," Sherlock said. His reply lacked his normal cutting tone – he sounded (could it be?) almost apprehensive.

Eventually they reached a small hill covered in gorse – the sweet, coconuty smell surrounding them. They hastened up it, Sherlock with long strides, John almost at a jog.

Finally, they reached the summit. John gasped. The view of the surrounding countryside was literally breathtaking. They could see the village, and, dimly in the fading light, their cottage. On the other side was the sea – John could see the coast path faintly winding down to it, and then the water itself – a red-orange mass shifting gently back and forth with a soft, barely audible _whoosh_. The sun was just setting, sending streaks of scarlet, purple and yellow through the sky, and dyeing the sea a deep crimson. The beach below was completely empty.

He turned to see Sherlock awkwardly removing his jacket, and watched, spellbound, as he allowed his wings to slide out through the slits in his shirt. They seemed even bigger, here, in the open air. Sherlock flexed them a few times, and John could sense properly for the first time the enormous power of them.

Sherlock dropped his jacket to the ground, and then turned back to John. He did look nervous – very much so. Not to mention stunningly beautiful.

That white shirt, with the top button undone, next to that unearthly, almost translucent skin. The red sunlight illuminating one side of his face – highlighting the chiselled cheekbones, gracing those sharp angles with a new softness. Jet black curls. Pale, shining eyes. Those long, thin limbs – so delicate, so vulnerable…

"Well… see you in a minute," Sherlock said curtly, and John nodded silently.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting – a run up? Sherlock to rise slowly into the air like a balloon? He didn't know, but what he didn't expect was for Sherlock to give two massive flaps of his wings and dive off the hill head-first.

"Holy _shit_…"

John ran to the edge, horribly afraid that he was going to see Sherlock's crumpled body _(oh God, please, no, anything but that, please, please, please…)_

And then he looked down and saw Sherlock give another huge flap of his wings and soar upwards again, past John and onwards into the sky above. The _whoosh _that followed him was enough to puff the hair back from John's face. He found he was laughing (with relief, joy or excitement, he didn't know), stepping back to see Sherlock better – now a small figure wheeling above, dark against the pale, puffy, pink-tinged clouds. He swooped and then climbed again, diving and darting back and forth, looping the loop, plummeting down towards the ground until John's heart was in his mouth, then executing another steep climb, gliding effortlessly through the air…

John didn't know how long he stood there, captivated, but when he came back to himself again he was chilly and straining to see in the growing darkness. A moment later there was a feathery _thwap_ and Sherlock landed beside him, breathless and practically _glowing _with happiness.

"I've forgotten just how good that feels," he gasped, and then he began to laugh, and so did John, until both of them could barely stand.

They collapsed on the damp grass, and Sherlock lay on his back and looked up at the stars. John could see the glimmers of light in his eyes. He'd never felt quite so close to him before. His thin chest was rising and falling rapidly, still trying to get his breath back. His face almost seemed to be shining in the starlight, it was so pale. He looked towards John, and smiled, and it almost broke John's heart.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For bringing me here."

"No problem."

Sherlock sat up suddenly, and John saw something glinting and sparkling and _dangerous _in his eyes.

"Come with me."

John didn't understand what he meant.

"Where to? I don't…"

Sherlock stood, and helped John to his feet. He was suddenly silent and serious. "Come with me. I'll take you with me."

John realised what he meant, and laughed out loud. "Are you mad? We couldn't both…"

"Of course we could," Sherlock said, and he sounded perfectly serious.

John looked at him again – riotous curls falling carelessly over that beautiful face – and hesitated. "No, I couldn't possibly…"

"Of course you could," Sherlock said, and his voice told John that he wasn't going to accept 'no' for an answer.

"But how would we…"

"Easy. You put your back to my chest, and I'll hold on to you."

John hesitated again. "But Sherlock… I'll be too heavy…"

"No buts," Sherlock said. "My father used to be able to fly, and he was more than twice my weight. Trust me."

John hesitated one more time, and then nodded, wondering what in God's name he was doing.

"Excellent. Stand on the edge just there."

John did as he was told, heart pounding. And if he thought he was panicking before, that was nothing when Sherlock stepped behind him, the warm heat of his body pressing at his back, those long arms looping themselves about him.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked quietly, and John gave a hoarse laugh.

"Did I mention that I'm shit-scared of heights?"

"No," Sherlock said promptly. "But I already knew."

John laughed nervously again. "Of course you did."

He swallowed, trying to force back the fear.

Sherlock's head ducked down to meet his, and he could have sworn a pair of warm, dry lips brushed his ear. "_Trust me_…"

"I do… Oh _Jesus Christ_!"

The instant the words had left John's mouth, Sherlock had given a single beat of his wings and they had leapt from the hill. For an instant John had felt a terrible falling sensation, and just as he was hoping that Sherlock would have the common sense to let John fall and save himself, Sherlock gave three more strong wing-beats, and they were _flying_ – dear God…

They were soaring above the ground, (John had no idea how many metres up), and the wind was whipping his hair back, and his eyes were smarting with the cold…

Sherlock adjusted his wings, and they swooped downwards again. John gasped, and he could hear Sherlock's throaty chuckle at his ear. Sherlock's arms were tightly about him, and he found he was laughing with elation, overcome by how _amazing_ this way, how liberating, how exhilarating…

Sherlock moved a little again, and they began to climb, the lights of the village become nothing more than pinpricks. They hovered for a moment, and before John knew what was happening, one of Sherlock's hands was sneaking down to meet his. For a moment, he stiffened again, scared of falling, before he realised that Sherlock knew was he was doing, and he could trust his judgement.

Sherlock took John's right hand in his and pulled it up so John was almost spread-eagled, his right arm now in line with Sherlock's wing. In fact, he could almost sense the feathers, just inches away…

He did protest when Sherlock began to move his left arm as well, and clung on to it tightly. "Jesus, Sherlock, are you trying to get me killed?"

Sherlock chuckled again. "No. Trust me."

John rolled his eyes. "I do, but are you sure you… _Oh_…"

Sherlock had moved his left arm and pulled John's hand up as he had done with his right. John gasped, clutching at Sherlock's long fingers, certain he was about to fall to his death.

"You underestimate my abilities," Sherlock said, his breath tickling John's ear, and John had just opened his mouth to reply when Sherlock led them on another heart-stopping swoop through the air.

xxxxx

After what seemed like blissful years, they came to land on the beach, staggering a little in the soft sand. John's legs were weak and trembling, his heart was thundering, his chest was heaving, his mind was spinning, and he didn't think he'd ever felt more alive in his life.

They broke apart as they reached the ground, and John spun to face Sherlock. His dark curls were dishevelled, his face white, his eyes shining.

"Shit… That was… That was amazing…" John managed to mumble, bending over and clutching at his knees for support.

Sherlock started laughing, and a moment later, so did John (he always found it incredible that they could become giggling idiots within seconds). Hardly aware of what he was doing, John stumbled towards Sherlock, and then they were holding on to each other for support, gasping for breath, almost hysterical with their shared adrenaline high.

Finally, the laughter died away again, and John was suddenly aware that he was standing on a desolated beach in the moonlight, half-clinging to Sherlock Holmes, his right hand grasping Sherlock's left shoulder. His heart began to beat faster again, but not out of fear this time.

Sherlock stopped laughing too, and for a moment they stood there in silence. John's heart was thundering in his chest now – he was surprised Sherlock couldn't hear it.

Sherlock's blue-green-grey eyes were directly staring into his, even as the grin slowly faded from his face. The moonlight lit up his angular features He, too, was breathing hard. The rustle of his feathers was the only sound on the beach, save for the gentle swoosh of the tiny waves rippling up the beach.

Hesitantly, John straightened, so they were nearly (though obviously not quite) eye-to-eye. Sherlock seemed completely paralysed. His throat moved, as if he were trying to say something, but no sound came out.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, John leaned forwards, still shaking slightly, and pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

xxxxx

There was a moment when Sherlock thought (unusually, for he disliked swearing) - _"oh bugger it's another dream"_, swiftly followed by, "_oh bugger it's _not _another dream"_.

John's lips were dry and soft and warm and gentle, and he tasted so perfect, so delicious, so _John_, and Sherlock's legs were trembling so thoroughly that he felt sure that they were going to give way in a minute or two. He closed his eyes and exhaled shakily.

John drew back, and their eyes met again. John looked as dazed as Sherlock felt - he licked his lips quickly, and then seemed to realise what he had done, and ducked away, swearing.

"Shit, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I…"

"You're not straight?" Sherlock asked blankly, his mind swimming.

John turned away from him, head in his hands. "No," he said, in a muffled voice.

"Oh God," Sherlock managed, before seizing John's shoulders and spinning him around.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you…?"

xxxxx

Before John knew what was happening, he was literally nose-to-nose to Sherlock, their foreheads pressed together. Sherlock's eyes were burning with a crazed light, and John was forcibly reminded of that night on the railway line when he'd found the coded graffiti.

Except that that time, he hadn't just kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock hadn't been shaking like a leaf.

"Sherlock, are you OK? – you're trembling…"

"Please God, tell me you're not joking," Sherlock said hoarsely.

"What? Of course I'm not…"

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "Do it again."

"What?"

"Must I spell everything out for you?" Sherlock growled, and he leaned forwards to kiss John. It was sloppy and messy and clumsy and Sherlock's utter inexperience was obvious, but it was also the best kiss John had ever had. It was all teeth and tongue and desperation and _Sherlock_. Hot, frantic, intoxicating… Sherlock's body was like a furnace beside him, and when John carded his fingers through his hair he gave a low moan and shuddered deliciously. John grinned, kissed him again quickly and drew back.

"You're not asexual, then?"

Sherlock snorted and laughed. "Certainly not."

"Not married to your work?"

Sherlock ducked his head a little, and gave a sheepish laugh. "At this rate, I'm going to have to get a divorce."

John tried to stop his mouth dropping open, but he knew just how much that meant to Sherlock – the cases were what kept him sane, alive, stopped that relentless brain chewing itself up. And he was prepared to give that all up – for John. Holy shit.

"Oh. Well. Good."

Sherlock hesitated, and let his grip on John's shoulders relax slightly. A slight twinge of worry passed across his face, and John shook him slightly.

"Are you all right? Sherlock?"

"I'm fine…" Sherlock lowered his head a little, and then glanced up again, his expression equal parts fear and hope. "Could… um… You…"

"You idiot," John said, and kissed him softly again, relishing Sherlock's gasp. Where Sherlock's kiss had been vicious, this was gentle and healing, sealing up the aching gap in John's heart, tender lips kissing away the hurt. John kissed Sherlock's mouth, his cheekbones, his closed, trembling eyelids, his forehead, his ears, his long, pale throat…

By the time he had finished Sherlock's eyes were wide and trusting, his mouth slightly open, as if pleading for more. John gave a soft laugh and kissed the tip of that oh-so-slightly freckled nose.

"How long have you…"  
Sherlock hesitated again, biting his lip. He looked so gorgeous that it was all John could do not to devour him.

John shrugged. "Months. I guess I kind of knew the day after I met you – I did kill a man for you, after all. And I didn't even think about it – it was like a reflex. The idea of you – so brilliant, so clever, so _alive _– the idea of you dying was just… unthinkable."

Sherlock gave a little smile. "I wouldn't have died. I chose the right pill, I know I did."

John rolled his eyes. "Don't start that again."

Sherlock gave a delicious, throaty chuckle that made John want to fling him backwards into the sand and ravish him. He restrained himself. Barely. Clearing his throat instead, he said awkwardly, "Erm… What about you, then? How long have you…? Um…"

Sherlock looked pensive. "I can't be sure exactly. First you were my flatmate, then my colleague, and then my friend, and then before I knew it, I couldn't live without you." He blushed a little, rendering him, if it were possible, even more delectable-looking. "But I was sure – absolutely sure – the other day. With my… wings."

The feathers fluttered a little, as if to remind John that they were still there. John frowned. "But why…?"

"Because when you accepted them – accepted_ me_…" Sherlock seemed to be struggling to find the right words. "It was more than I could ever have hoped for. And…" He hesitated again, and then seemed to decide to bite the bullet. "When my father touched them – when children at school touched them – it would hurt so badly…" His words were tripping over each other in their haste, his cheeks flushed. "But when you did – I, I…" His eyes fluttered closed for a moment. "I stopped _thinking_. It was… good."

John smiled, and stroked a hand through Sherlock's hair before he could stop himself. "Do you want me to touch them again? Without the gloves?"

"More than anything," Sherlock gasped, his eyes still tightly closed.

John's hand drifted closer and closer to those dark feathers, almost unconsciously. When he was only a few centimetres away, Sherlock gave a long shiver and a breathy gasp, and John realised that maybe this wasn't the best place to be doing this – in the cold and dark, when they'd just kissed for the first time.

"I will," John promised, drawing his hand away, and kissing Sherlock's jaw. "Just not now, OK?"

Sherlock nodded and gave a beatific, shy smile that could have broken John's heart. Just as the thought crossed his mind, John shivered himself, and realised just how cold he was.

"We should get back home… I mean, back to the cottage," John said quietly. "It's getting a bit chilly." Sensible as this plan was, John couldn't help feeling that they could find some novel way of keeping themselves warm here on the beach, though some removal of clothing might be necessary first…

He coughed, trying to force the thoughts from his mind, and looked up to see Sherlock eyeing him with a predatory smirk that made it perfectly clear that he knew _exactly _what John had just been thinking. He flushed scarlet, and tried to pretend it hadn't happened by beginning to trudge back along the beach towards where the coast path snaked down from the clifftop to meet the sand. He was completely unprepared for Sherlock crashing into him from behind.

"No you don't," Sherlock growled in his ear, before John had had chance to protest or gather his breath. "I'm taking you back."

John barely had time to swear loudly before Sherlock's long arms folded about him and he took off.

xxxxx

Despite the fact that being carried by your flying flatmate was actually a very rapid mode of transport, John was still shivering as he tried to unlock the front door of the cottage. Sherlock, sighing in mock-exasperation, did it for him.

They tumbled in the warmth of the house again, suddenly a little subdued and nervous. John mumbled something about getting some tea and made his escape to the kitchen. Once there, he leaned against one of the units and took a deep, calming breath.

The revelation that Sherlock was attracted to him (and had, somehow, impossibly, been feeling that way for quite some time) was going to get some getting used to. And even if he had been able to accept that on the spot, the whole relationship _thing _was going to be tricky anyway. He didn't know how many partners Sherlock had had before, but he was guessing at _very few_. After all, even drunken one-night-stands would tend to notice if you had wings sprouting out of your back (unless Sherlock had had hurried, shirt-still on and wings-unnoticed sex, which seemed unlikely). The fact that he might be a virgin simultaneously terrified and thrilled John. Thrilled, because the thought that he might be Sherlock's _first _was a fairly giddy one. Terrified, because firstly that put quite a lot of pressure on him, and secondly _dear God_ he wanted Sherlock so much, and he couldn't rush things, had to take it slow for Sherlock's sake. And because he had a growing impulse to just bend Sherlock over the nearest available surface, and, um….

His fairly lewd thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock's arrival. He was wearing a tatty old blanket he had found in a cupboard earlier over his shirt, and looked little a small, lost child. John's heart gave a pang at the sight of him.

"If you don't want to do this," Sherlock said, and his voice was utterly expressionless. "Then that's fine. I'm sorry. I know I'm not very experienced, and I don't know how to…"

His voice faltered, and he stared at the ground again.

Before he knew what he was doing John had rushed towards him, tea forgotten, and, taking advantage of his wings being covered by the blanket, hugged him tightly. Sherlock stiffened, surprised.

"Sherlock, in no way am I having second thoughts," John told him severely. "Get those ridiculous thoughts out of your head right now. Understand? I want us to… to do this very much. It might not be easy, but I don't care – OK?"

Sherlock nodded, and buried his face in John's jumper.

"Off you go, you idiot," John said affectionately. "Go and get into… um… bed."

The thought made his heart pound still more.

He heard Sherlock use the shower quickly, and then gave him ten minutes or so to get dressed (passing the time by swigging down scalding tea – _liquid courage_, he kept telling himself, though he was fairly sure the term was usually only used when referring to alcohol).

Finally he set his mug down and took the plunge, marching to the bedroom, and knocking gingerly. "Um… Sherlock? Are you… done?"

"Yes," came the prompt reply.

He opened the door to find Sherlock lying on top of the covers, wearing his silk pyjamas, with an air of expectation about him.

Swallowing hard, John went and grabbed his own pyjamas from his case and had a very swift shower. When he emerged again, Sherlock was in exactly the same position, wide, pale eyes watching him.

John coughed awkwardly. "Look, Sherlock, I know this is pretty sudden, so if you want me to sleep on the sofa, that's fine. I mean, we can share the bed if you want, and I won't um… do anything – not yet, OK?"

"OK," Sherlock said, still watching him.

"Um… Does that mean you want me to sleep on the sofa, or…"

"What do you think?" Sherlock growled, reaching up and pulling John into a soft kiss. John grinned.

"I thought as much."

It felt very strange, sharing the bed, but at the same time, oddly familiar. Sherlock wriggled under the covers, and John waited a moment before switching off the bedside lamp. They lay in silence for a moment, until John decided to go for another awkward cough.

"I don't know if you want to… um…" _Oh dear God… _"Um… Cuddle – but it's fine if you don't, I don't mean we have to…"

"I'll try it," Sherlock suggested, his voice disembodied in the darkness. John found it easier to concentrate on what he was saying when he didn't have to see the gorgeous man attached to that voice. "And if we like it, then that's good, and if we don't, then we don't have to do it."

"Good idea," John said, trying to suppress his grin.

He felt a shift on the mattress as Sherlock began to hesitantly edge towards him. He rolled over slightly, so he would be facing him, and reached out an arm to try and feel where he was. When his fingers met Sherlock's chest, he drew back a little, but a moment later, Sherlock was beside him, hands awkwardly patting John's head and shoulders to try and find him.

John laughed a little, and found Sherlock's arm, pulling him a little closer. He leaned forwards and tried to find Sherlock's mouth in the dark, using his mouth. First he got a mouthful of Sherlock's hair, but he eventually found his target and pressed a quick kiss there, which Sherlock returned. A warm jolt of happiness jumped in John's stomach, and he wondered what it would be like if they could always be like this. It would be odd, he decided. Odd, but good.

xxxxx

Sherlock wriggled closer to John and then shuffled down some more, until eventually he was curled up in John's arms, his head level with John's chest, his curls brushing John's nose. It was pleasantly warm, and he felt comfortable and safe. He heard John's sigh of contentment and smiled.

"You OK?" John asked, his voice already muzzy with sleep.

"Fine," Sherlock replied, nuzzling a little closer to John's warmth.

He could sense John's smile.

"G'night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

_Author's Note: Oh my God, so much fluff! I'm not sure I've ever written so much in my life! And it's my longest chapter so far, too :D Really really hope you enjoyed this, and whoever it was who I promised that this chapter would be up earlier than it actually was, sorry! Half-way through the beach kiss I had a horrible mental block, and had to resume it the next day!_

_xxxxx_

_A quick reply to my anonymous reviewers…_

_To CaptainOblivious – I really hadn't intended them to be like that (I was more kind of aiming for the "soul" thing), but reading back I saw exactly what you meant! Unintentional subconscious symbolism! (blushes)_

_To Danigurl – Thank you lots, and hope you enjoyed this chapter :D_

_xxxxx_

_Now, just another little issue I want to bring up (and I'm a little embarrassed about being so crude), but what about a sex scene? I have a very mini list of reasons for and against:_

_For: Not sure I can resist writing one. Plus, I can't help thinking the wingtouching has really got to lead to something, somehow…_

_Against: I have never written one before, and I don't want to ruin my story. Also, then I'd have to upgrade it to an 'M', so less people would read it :/_

_Anyways, I'm going to try and set up a poll on my profile, so if you care either way (you probably don't), please vote and I'll see what the general consensus is!_

_xxxxx_

_Before I go, thank you thank you thank you for all your lovely reviews, and I genuinely adore each and every one of you :) And please tell me what you thought of this chapter, since it's far more fluffy that my usual stuff and although I enjoyed writing it I wasn't quite sure whether it worked or not! Tell me your favourite bits, please! (Sherlock flying, Sherlock flying with John, the kiss, the snuggling?) :D xxx_


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock woke slowly, and smiled once he remembered where he was - folded safe in John's arms. John was snoring softly, his warm breath tickling Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock smiled at the sight of him, and reached out a long, nervous finger to stroke his cheek. It was pleasantly warm and soft.

He withdrew his hand slowly, and John stirred slightly. Sherlock tensed for a second, a sudden irrational fear that this had all been a mistake surfacing again. John groaned, stretched and then opened his sleep-blurred eyes. "Whatever you're thinking, Sherlock, it's almost certainly wrong."  
Sherlock flushed, and before he could pluck up the courage to take the initiative himself, John leant forwards and kissed him softly on the lips. Sherlock grinned, and returned the kiss. Eventually they drew away from each other again, and Sherlock noticed John's dazed, dreamy expression.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

It was John's turn to flush. "Can't you guess?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I never guess."

John coughed awkwardly. "I was just thinking that if I could wake up every morning to you in my bed, I think, whatever happened, I would die a happy man."

Sherlock blinked, confused, and then raised his head to kiss John again, because not only was it a strangely touching thing to say, but also the thought of John dying was so abhorrent that he wanted to clutch him close to make sure nothing could ever happen to him. He could feel John's smile against his lips, and drew back a little. John's hand followed his face, cupping his cheek and caressing it gently.

"We should get up," John murmured. "I should think it's nearly midday." His hand moved slightly, and he stroked Sherlock's hair. Sherlock felt a shiver of warmth in his chest, and wondered if John touching him would always feel like this.

"Getting up is dull," he pointed out, his eyes not leaving John's.

John chuckled. "We can't lie here all day, unfortunately," he replied, sitting up, hauling himself out of bed with a groan and staggering to the kitchen for his morning cup of tea. Sherlock couldn't decide whether to be irritated that John had left him, or ridiculously pleased that John had said "unfortunately".

"D'you want tea?" John called from the kitchen.

"Hm," Sherlock replied, knowing that John knew that that meant "coffee" and rolled out of bed himself. After a quick visit to the bathroom, he trudged into the kitchen, the tiles cold on his bare feet. John turned, smiled at the sight of him (he could never get enough of that smile), and handed him a steaming mug.

They perched on the kitchen table side-by-side and sipped silently. Sherlock allowed his wings to slide out through the slits in his shirt and stretched them, wincing, stiff from the night before. When he'd finished, John gave Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek and then jumped down from the table to go and get dressed. When he returned, it was Sherlock's turn to go and dress. Somehow, even though they'd shared a bed the previous night, it would have felt strange to change in the other's presence.

"We should walk down to the village," John called from the kitchen. "It's a nice day – we could go and explore a bit – buy a postcard for Mrs. Hudson?"

"You do realise that by the time she gets the thing, we will have been back home for several days?" Sherlock reminded him curtly, searching through his suitcase for underpants. "The whole exercise is utterly pointless."

"Mmm," John agreed. "But it's still quite nice to do. Anyway, we need to get something for dinner this evening. I'm starving – we should eat lunch in a café or something, as it's a bit late for breakfast."

"We've got that bread we bought yesterday," Sherlock pointed out, pulling on his trousers.

"I know, but we ate all the beans," John replied mournfully.

"We've got milk."

"Yeah, but no cereal. I forgot at the shop yesterday, even after all that palaver about how much milk to get."  
"You could eat it with the bread."  
"I'm not a hedgehog, Sherlock!"

"You shouldn't feed hedgehogs bread and milk, John," Sherlock informed him loftily, tugging his shirt over his head and returning to the kitchen. "It's bad for their digestive systems. Cat or dog food is far more suitable."

"Mr. Know It All," John said with a smile, turning away from the window out of which he had been staring, and planting a kiss on Sherlock's nose (Sherlock scowled, though it was actually quite nice). "So the solar system is so pointless you can afford to delete it from your memory completely, but you know the exact dietary requirements of hedgehogs?"

"It was for a case!" Sherlock said, with dignity. "A little old lady, furious with her neighbours always putting out bread and milk for hedgehogs, despite her repeated advice that it was a bad idea, launched a spectacular and quite ingenious hate campaign…"

"I shouldn't have asked," John smirked, kissing Sherlock on the nose again (the fact that he had to stand on tiptoe a little just made it all the more adorable). "Now, come on – get some shoes on, or I'm going down to the village without you."

xxxxx

They walked down to the village in near-silence, which John found unexpectedly pleasant. Not that he didn't love it when Sherlock talked (hell, just the _voice _of the man was enough to stun John's brain into a dazed, practically _drooling _stupor), but it was nice that they felt comfortable enough with each other that they didn't have to resort to awkward, inane conversation just to break the silence. John had had enough gossipy, never-stop-talking girlfriends to know that sometimes, silence was a good thing.

By the time they reached the village, John's stomach was growling impatiently, and when they saw a chippie, he found it impossible to resist. Normally, he would object to the idea of his first meal of the day containing chips (he wasn't a student, for Christ's sake), but today all the rules seemed to have gone out of the window – the sun was shining brightly, he had just spent the night cuddled up next to Sherlock Holmes, and he was _starving_.

Of course, when Sherlock reluctantly confessed he'd never tried fish and chips (his repertoire of meals that he had actually tried was extremely small, though he seemed to know his way around a Chinese takeaway menu pretty well), it was an even greater incentive.

They emerged, triumphant (in John's case) and sceptical (in Sherlock's) from the chip shop, each clutching a greasy newspaper parcel. They ambled down to a little beach, bordered by a myriad of brightly coloured shops, and sat down on the coarse, dry sand (John with a satisfied _thump_, Sherlock a little more gingerly). John dumped his newspaper package on his knee and ripped it open without preamble, while Sherlock set his cautiously down on the sand beside him and unwrapped it as if it were a bomb about to go off. When he spent one minute too many contemplating the plastic similar-to-but-too-small-to-be-a-fork that came in the packet, John simply speared a chip on his own fork and shoved it in Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock gave a indignant "mmph" of surprise, but ate the chip anyway, and then, apparently resigning himself to his fate, started eating his own.

"I know you're not going to be keen on this," John said quietly, after the initial hunger had passed and he was picking at his remaining chips rather than wolfing them down. "But I think we should talk."

Sherlock froze with a chip half-way to his mouth, and John gave a half-irritated, half-amused sigh and kissed him swiftly on the forehead. "No, you idiot. I'm not having second thoughts. I just mean that things are moving quite quickly, and I'd appreciate us just… well… discussing it."

"Hmmm," Sherlock said doubtfully, though he had relaxed again and brought the forgotten chip to his mouth. John had to force himself not to become fixated on the sight of Sherlock eating it.

"So I take it you've… um… had some kind of feelings for me for a while?" John asked carefully, cautious of alarming Sherlock.

"That seems a fairly accurate assessment, yes," Sherlock said curtly, clearing not appreciating the conversation.

"And you want us to be in a proper, romantic relationship, right?"

Sherlock glanced up again, and the guarded, insecure look was back in his eyes. "If you…"

"Of course I would," John said swiftly, and fought the urge to kiss him again. "And erm… How do you feel about… y'know… PDAs?"

Sherlock's brow creased. "I hardly think it's the time to be discussing palmtop computers, John."

John groaned. "No – public displays of affection."

"Since when did you use such juvenile…?"

"Like kissing or hand-holding and stuff in public," John continued, ignoring Sherlock's criticisms of his grammar ("massacring the English language…"). "What do you think about it?"

Sherlock frowned again. "Well, I don't care. You may have noticed, but I don't always obey conventional social norms."

John smiled. "No, I guess you don't."

He ate another chip, thoughtfully. "Listen, Sherlock. I mean, this is a pretty… personal question, and it's fine – absolutely fine – if you don't want to answer it… I shan't be offended, or judge you, or anything like that – it's not massively important, I was just wondering - like I said, you don't need to…"  
"Please – John. Your irritating overuse of perfectly unnecessary abbreviations is one thing, but _please_ sort out your sentence structures," Sherlock drawled. John rolled his eyes, thinking how unfair it was that the man could be so annoying and yet still sound so gorgeous.

"Have you ever been in a… relationship before?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock seemed suddenly to be intensely focused on his chips. "No," he said coldly, a muscle flickering in his jaw. He swallowed. "In university, someone… asked me. But I said no."

"OK," John said promptly, trying to sound as casual as possible, and not at all stunned that his suspicions that his thirty-four-year-old flatmate was really as inexperienced as he appeared had just been confirmed. "That's fine. Completely fine."  
He hesitated again. "And I… Well, I don't been to be blunt, but about… y'know… sex."

Sherlock glanced up again, a half-smile dancing in his face at the sight of John's embarrassment.

"I mean – we don't have to, if you don't want to – if you just want to cuddle (or even if you don't want to do that all the time), then that's fine… What I mean is, there's no pressure for us to rush into anything tomorrow, or even next week, or next month, OK? You can have as long as you need – the last thing I want to do is to… push you into something you're not ready for, and…"

"I've had dreams," Sherlock interrupted, with his customary bluntness. His eyes were fixed on John, searching for a reaction. John blinked, a little perplexed, having lost track of his train of thought.

"Dreams? What kind of…?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, and John's brain whirred to life.

"Oh, right, I see, oh… OK, um…" He coughed awkwardly, trying not to imagine Sherlock imagining those kinds of things _(them, together, bare limbs tangled in the bedclothes)_, because that made him start imagining them too _(Sherlock's heated kisses, those beautiful, beautiful lips, his exquisite, slender figure)_… Shit, too late.

He gave an awkward shame-faced laugh, and then tried to return to his "responsible, non-pushy boyfriend" role. _Oh dear God, was he Sherlock's boyfriend? It made him sound ridiculous!_

"But seriously, Sherlock." He gave a small, sincere frown, to emphasise how serious he needed Sherlock to be. "We don't need to rush into anything…"

"Hn. Talking's boring," Sherlock declared, like a small child who has just learnt a new sentence and then insists on using whenever physically possible.

Long, thin arms looped about him, and a surprisingly cautious mouth was lowered to his. Sherlock seemed to be beaming out as much heat as an over-enthusiastic radiator, and John felt even warmer once Sherlock's lips brushed over his. All the breath left his lungs in a single, heated sigh (as did Sherlock's, by the sound of it), and he relaxed into the kiss, hands sliding up into Sherlock's soft, thick hair, which made Sherlock's breathing falter for a moment. John's heart was pounding, and Sherlock's lips were suddenly so hot and demanding that they were taking his breath away. He decided to take a bit of control back, and slide his right hand from Sherlock's hair and instead took to rubbing his back, deft fingers tracing the wings hidden beneath the fabric.

Sherlock's reaction was immediate and dramatic. His back arched, his whole body trembling, and he took several huge gulps of air. For a horrible second, John thought he'd done something terribly wrong, until Sherlock gave a low, sensual moan, and fell back to kissing him desperately, his breath hitching every time John's fingers began to move again – rubbing gentle circles against his wings, until Sherlock was almost sobbing, his head lolling, fingers grasping John's jumper desperately, a litany of _pleasepleaseplease _escaping his lips. Taking pity on him, John removed his hands again and returned to gently kissing his mouth and face. Sherlock tried clumsily to reciprocate, which only served to send shivers of desire running down John's spine.

Suddenly remembering they were on a public beach, John drew back again, rather reluctantly. Sherlock's face was flushed, his eyes wide and sparkling bright, his curls in disarray. His lips were red and slightly swollen, and he was still gasping for breath. He was so unspeakably gorgeous that John had to restrain himself from jumping on him – he'd been too rough with him already.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, are you OK?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, his eyes staring.

"Um…" John coughed again. "We should go and get some stuff for dinner – what d'you reckon?"

"Mmm," Sherlock said, his eyes still dreamily fixed on John.

"And take that look off your face – you look like you've been shagged half to death, and we don't want to offend the delicate sensibilities of that poor little old lady in the shop. We've got to wait until we get home next time."

xxxxx

Thankfully Sherlock had recovered his wits sufficiently by the time they got to the shop to have an enthusiastic argument with John about what to have for dinner. Sherlock, of course, didn't want to eat anything. He was finding it very hard to understand why John was so _obsessed _with eating.

"John, did you see how many chips we had for lunch? We surely don't require any more food!"

"Yes, we do!" John argued back. "Or, at least, I most certainly do, and you're too skinny for your own good anyway!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure that you appreciate the fact that if I become overweight then chasing after criminals will become significantly more difficult!"  
John raised his eyebrows, which made his forehead crinkle up delightfully. "You? Overweight? You're skin and bloody bone! A couple of decent meals isn't going to kill you. Now, what about pasta?"

"John, are you deliberately seeking to be exceptionally mundane, or is it accidental?"

"OK… Do you fancy cheesy sauce or tomato sauce?"

Sherlock shot him a look that could have fried most humans from thirty yards away, but it just bounced off John. Maybe it was something to do with the jumpers (he was wearing a rather pleasant green one today).

"Maybe tomato," John said to himself under his breath. Sherlock wondered if he talked to himself in Tesco, when he wasn't yelling abuse at self-service checkouts. "Because whenever I try to make cheesy sauce it just curdles," he added mournfully, apparently for Sherlock's benefit. "Looked like vomit last time. Whereas tomato, you can buy in a jar and just bung in a pan. Sherlock, could you pass me that jar of Dolmio?"

Sherlock turned and located the jar on the top shelf. He passed it down with a smirk, which John ignored.

"OK… We've got pasta, we've got sauce… Um, let's get some cereal for breakfast tomorrow, shall we? Or what about some jam or something?" He looked up at Sherlock, chewing his lip, as if the matter was one of national importance. That was another thing (just one of a very very very long list of things) that Sherlock liked about John. He could be deep, he could be philosophical, he could discuss the innermost motivations of the human race, and he could also become almost comically fixated on the most petty and bizarre of subjects.

"I think jam," Sherlock said seriously, because if they started looking at cereal now they wouldn't get back to the cottage until dark, and he didn't think he could survive not kissing John for that long, and if he did it now he might get overenthusiastic and knock over one of those tottering displays of value orange juice.

However, to Sherlock's abject dismay, the small shop provided a bewildering range of jam, probably due in no small part to the culinary endeavours of the local women (and men, since one didn't want to be more sexist that was necessary). There was raspberry, strawberry, and orange, but fairly soon John was examining jars of gooseberry, blackberry, apricot, redcurrant and loganberry. After a few minutes contemplation he apparently decided that maybe raspberry was a wise choice after all, and they finally made it to the checkout, with a postcard for Mrs. Hudson as well. The same little old lady from the previous day was there, still, oddly enough, perusing the same magazine. She greeted the two of them like old friends.

"Back again, dears? You know, I saw Maureen at the post office earlier, and I said to her that I'd seen the two young men what were renting the cottage, and then she said…"

"Lovely weather," Sherlock said quickly, pushing the packet of pasta in her direction.

"Ooh, it is that – only April, and it's been so warm…"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at John in desperation. In return, John gave him The Look, which meant Sherlock was to stop being rude. It was normally only partially successful, at best.

They finally escaped, and Sherlock was quite willing to sprint the mile home, so desperate was he to start kissing John again, but John insisted that they _walk. _Sedately. Sherlock was sure he was soon going to go mad, and he was also sure that John knew that very well. They trudged down in the road at a snail's pace. Just when Sherlock had decided that really he would just kiss John _now _and hang the consequences, John turned and gave him a placid, gentle smile just _deliberately _intended to try Sherlock's willpower, so he managed to grit his teeth and resist the urge to kiss John so hard that he would fall over.

However, when they made it back to the house, John had barely set the bag of shopping down on the worktop in the kitchen when Sherlock lunged at him, pinning him against the kitchen units and kissing him frantically. John gave a deep chuckle, and then a little moan, and shoved Sherlock backwards so that all of a sudden _he _was the one pushed against the cupboards, and _John _was the one taking control. Sherlock moaned haplessly, giving in to John's lips and _ohdearGod_ tongue until he was nothing but a puddle of desperate pleasure.

John laughed again, and drew back, pressing a final soft kiss to Sherlock's lips before going to fill the kettle. Sherlock remained half-collapsed against the kitchen units, trying to recover his breath, and deeply envying John his unruffled composure.

"Tea?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded his acquiescence, going to sit down on the table again.

John switched on the kettle and went to get the little box of teabags from the cupboard. Sherlock watched him intently, wondering how he could bring the thoughts swirling around his mind out into the open.

John made the tea and brought Sherlock his mug, before returning to lean against the units and watch Sherlock with a contemplative air. "Come on, then," he said kindly, smiling at Sherlock over the top of his tea. "I can tell there's something on your mind."

Sherlock hesitated. "What you said on the beach..."  
"Mmhm. What particular thing?"

"About... sex."

"Mmhm."

"Could we do it now?"

John choked on his mouthful of tea. "Shit, Sherlock!" he spluttered. "Now?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, affronted. He didn't see why that was such an outrageous request.

"But it's... it's only half past one!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know there were laws against it at certain times of day."

John rubbed his temple in frustration. "But Sherlock... We only kissed for the first time yesterday, and I can't help feeling it's a bit rushed... I went too far on the beach, and I'm sorry, but I just think..."  
"It is because I'm a virgin?" Sherlock asked shortly. "Is that why you don't want to?"

"It's not that I don't want to! I just don't want to rush into anything!"

"Is it because of..." Sherlock's throat closed up, and it took a moment to clear it. "Is it because of the wings? Because I know they're a bit… alien, and I could try and keep them covered up..."

John set down his mug of tea, and his voice was suddenly stern and heart-breakingly sad at the same time. "Never say that," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "But..."

"No. I mean it." John's face was intense and unsmiling. "I love you, Sherlock – all of you. Do you really think I've forgotten that, just because you happen to be different? Of course not. If anything, they just make you more beautiful, and more perfect. I don't want you to ever hide them."

"You... love me?" Sherlock asked. His voice sounded oddly hoarse.

John swore again. "Shit, sorry – I didn't mean to dump that on you so soon. I completely understand if you don't feel the same way yet, or even don't ever feel the same way – I don't want to pressure you into..."

"I think I might," Sherlock said quietly, and John didn't tell him that he didn't or couldn't, or wasn't experienced enough to know yet. He just smiled, took a step forwards, slipped a hand behind Sherlock's head, and pulled him down for another kiss. This one was soft and tender and blissful. Sherlock's wings twitched. "Can I...?" he murmured, around John's lips.

"Of course," John said gently, and pulled back a little. Sherlock didn't know what he was doing, until he realised he was pulling down the arms of his jumper to avoid any accidental skin-to-wing contact. Sherlock tugged free his coat and allowed his wings to emerge, stretching luxuriously, and then curving round so that they surrounded him and John like a feathery bubble, safe and protected from the rest of the world.

xxxxx

John sighed and laid his head on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's wings were incredibly warm and gentle – John wanted dearly to brush his cheek against the feathers to see if they were as soft as they looked, but fought to resist.

"We can," he said quietly. "Of course we can – it's not like I've ever been able to resist you anything."

Sherlock bowed his head a little so his nose was nuzzling John's ear. They stayed like that for several minutes, John's hands tentatively brushing Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock's arms and wings curled about John's back.

Eventually John sighed and moved back a little – Sherlock allowed his wings to fold back to his body. "We should go for a walk or something."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, sounding as drowsy and contented as John felt.

"Because you can't come on a holiday to Wales and just spend the duration of it inside, particularly when it's _sunny_. Come on."

They walked down to the beach they'd visited the previous evening, taking the longer route down the cliff path (Sherlock wanted to fly, but John forbade it). When they reached the beach, John sat down in the sand and took off his shoes and socks immediately. Sherlock was rather more cautious, but John finally managed to persuade him. They even went paddling in the sea (the sight of the six foot tall Sherlock daintily tip-toeing through the water, trying not to get his trousers wet, was one John would treasure forever), though they quickly decided that the water was really too cold to stay in for long.

Finally they sat there in the soft sand, a little out of breath from laughing. John shot a glance at Sherlock. He was as beautiful as always, his pale shirt accentuating his waif-like frame, the trousers he had borrowed from John (far too short for him, of course), now soaked with water and clinging to his legs. It was so unusual, somehow, to see him so happy and so uninhibited, that it took John's breath away.

Sherlock noticed his scrutiny and turned an inquiring head. "What is it, John?"

That deep, delicious, melodious voice got him every time. John pulled him forwards by his shirt collar for another kiss.

xxxxx

By the time they got home again evening was already drawing in with surprisingly rapidity. Despite the beautiful sunny days, when the sun began sinking (John had tried and failed to explain the whole science Earth-rotating thing to Sherlock), it wasn't long before dusk truly set in.

Sherlock flumped down on the sofa and tried to check his phone again for any messages ("Lestrade is bound to have a case for me by now!"), while John put the kettle on again and began looking through the cupboards for a saucepan for the pasta. The warm, homely familiarity of it all was comforting. Even though they were in a different house, and Sherlock had wings, and he knew that if he wanted to kiss the man, he no longer needed to resist the impulse, it felt oddly, in fact, _beautifully_ normal.

"John!"

John rolled his eyes – that imperious, aristocratic call – and obligingly went through to the living room. Sherlock was standing on the windowsill, his arm outstretched, a gleeful look on his face.

"I have a signal!" he announced. His phone binged, and he pulled it back towards him triumphantly. His face fell a moment later, and he threw the phone to John (John thanked his lucky stars yet again for good catching skills, which were oddly crucial when living with Sherlock) with a look of disgust, collapsing back on the windowsill with a look of abject depression.

"Mycroft!" he spat.

John grinned and read the text.

**Glad you have told John. Wish you every happiness, etc. Please remember to be prudent in your nightly activities (do not bother to pretend to misunderstand me – you are very immature at times). Could be irksome to sort out if you are discovered - scientists are hard to bribe. MH**

"Well, at least he wishes us 'every happiness'," John said, still smiling. Sherlock gave a theatrical groan and sagged still further against the window, hand flopping down in a dramatic gesture. John refused to react and encourage Sherlock's bad behaviour – rather, he said, "Try to get the TV working. Pasta'll be ready in twenty minutes."

xxxxx

They ate their dinner side by side on the sofa. At least, John ate his, and then argued, persuaded, blackmailed and bribed Sherlock into eating his. They watched Coronation Street (Sherlock could always predict the future storylines by the actors' behaviour), then a cooking programme, then ITV's latest "hit crime drama", which Sherlock utterly despised and John quite enjoyed.

When it had finished, they sat awkwardly together on the sofa, channel flicking. John's heart was beating almost painfully hard. He didn't know if Sherlock remembered that John had agreed to sleeping together earlier, or even if he had taken John's agreement seriously. Despite his noble sentiments, now it came down to it, he wanted to. Badly. Of course, he couldn't, and wouldn't, pressure Sherlock into anything, and he didn't want to mention it in case Sherlock had changed his mind and was trying to back down quietly, hoping John didn't remember. But what if...?  
He had paused for a second on a repeat of Britain's Got Talent, and Sherlock tutted. "You're an idiot."  
"I know it's not exactly high-brow," John said defensively. "But you enjoyed that dog dancing last week, didn't you?"

"Not that!"

John turned to him, and soft lips met his. Was it going to take his breath away every time? Sherlock – untouchable, remote, distant Sherlock, his skin warm and flushed, his movements gentle, eyes bright and breath catching a little with desire.

They broke apart, and John paused, one hand cupping Sherlock's cheek. "Are you sure? Totally sure?"

Sherlock nodded and then hesitated. "Unless you...?"

John gave him a serious look, to show that he was still certain. "Absolutely."

They kissed again, but somehow, the mood had changed slightly. It was more serious, more intense. They broke apart again. The room seemed to have suddenly become warmer, and Sherlock's touch was an electric spark on his skin.

"You go in the shower first," Sherlock offered. "I was first yesterday."  
"OK."

John stood nervously, and went to the shower. He washed his hair and then stood for a while in the warm water, closing his eyes, letting the water gush down his face. He exhaled slowly, then got out and dried himself off. He considered not wearing his pyjamas, but he wanted this to be slow and tentative and at the pace Sherlock wanted – he didn't want him to feel that they had to rush. Tonight, they had all the time in the world. He pulled on his old, navy pyjamas.

He emerged from the bathroom, his head a little clearer, and was nearly bowled over by Sherlock, clutching his towel and his pyjamas and muttering something about John taking "years".

John smiled and went to sit on the bed. His heart was beating incredibly fast, considering that this was by no means his first time. But somehow, that was what made it hard. Sherlock, for all his intelligence and sarcastic comments, was so innocent and vulnerable. He wanted this to be perfect for him, and that desire was twice as strong than the lust that suggested he should just rip off Sherlock's clothes and have his way with him (noble as his intentions were, John's heart still skipped a beat at that thought). The mere thought of Sherlock feeling uncomfortable or scared in any way was so repellent that it made him feel nauseous. His mind flicked to a horrific image of a young, bruised Sherlock crouching in darkness, and Sherlock's voice echoed in his head. _My father… He wasn't the pleasantest of men… I was bad…_

He shook his head, as if to clear it. No. He was going to let Sherlock know how much he loved him, how he wanted to hold him close and never let him go – never let him be hurt again. He thought again about the wings, how he'd wanted to run his fingers through them the first time he'd ever seen them, how Sherlock's breathing had faltered, and he'd realised a second later with a thrill of surprise that in was in pleasure rather than in pain.

The bathroom door open, and Sherlock emerged with a cloud of steam. He, too, was wearing his pyjamas, and he was towelling his hair dry vigorously. He turned to see John on the bed, and hesitated for a moment. John rolled his eyes and patted the bed beside him. Sherlock sat down, sweeping his bare, skinny feet on to the bed with him. John looked him straight in the eyes, one more time. "Sure?"

"Utterly positive."

xxxxx

Their lips met tentatively again, and they kissed for a few minutes, John gentle, Sherlock inquisitive. Sherlock's heart was beating fast, his breath catching in his throat. John's skin was hot and his hands were moving desperately through Sherlock's hair. Desire was pulsing in Sherlock's blood, setting his nerves on fire. John's lips moved down, warm moist kisses trailing down Sherlock's neck, taking his breath away. He wanted to reciprocate, to make John gasp and moan, but he found he could only drape himself helplessly over John, fingers scrabbling at faded cotton.

xxxxx

John slowed down a little, leaning back a little from Sherlock so their eyes could meet. Sherlock's were wide and glassy, his pupils blown. John gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, and then reached a hesitant hand towards the buttons of his silk pyjama shirt, giving Sherlock a quick, questioning glance, to check that he was still OK with this. Sherlock gave a swift nod, and reached for John's own buttons.

In a remarkably short amount of time, Sherlock's shirt was off, and at once, his wings unfurled themselves, stretching until they were fully extended, dwarfing John. John hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do first, and, at once, the eager light died in Sherlock's eyes. "It's fine, you don't have to. I understand."

"No, don't be ridiculous…"

Sherlock was already turning away, cheeks pink with humiliation, goosebumps appearing on his bony chest. John, realising that he had to act now to avoid ruining the situation still further, seized Sherlock's shoulders and dragged him round for another kiss. For a moment he thought that Sherlock had changed his mind, because his body stiffened, but a moment later he relaxed a little again, and John felt it would be safe to draw back.

"I want to do this," he said firmly, not letting Sherlock break eye contact. "I want you to want to do this. And, Christ, if I can't touch those wings this instant, I'm going to lose my marbles."

xxxxx

Before Sherlock could fully comprehend what was happening, John had flung him backwards on to the bed. The duvet puffed up in his face, and he lay there, surrounded by luxurious softness and cool sheets and _John_. He gazed up at him desperately, watching the flickering of his brown eyes as he took in every inch of Sherlock. It was exciting, thrilling, terrifying, exhilarating. His wings were practically vibrating, feathers rippling and muscles shifting as though he were in flight.

John's body was tanned, muscular and compact, with a light dusting of chest hair that Sherlock himself didn't possess. The scar on his shoulder was a mess of ridged pink-white skin, and Sherlock wanted to kiss, touch, taste it. He reached out trembling fingers, and John closed his eyes for a second, letting him investigate, before leaning down to capture his mouth in another kiss. They kissed until Sherlock felt vaguely dizzy, drunk on the feel and taste and smell of John. When he drew back again, his face was serious. Sherlock saw with a spine-tingling mixture of terror, triumph and stomach-swirling anticipation, that John's hand was hovering an inch above his feathers, and felt glad that despite John's brash words, he was still in control, still concerned that Sherlock wasn't sure.

"Sherlock, are you...?"

Sherlock considered a pithy, sarcastic remark, considered rolling his eyes, considered snorting in contempt at the idea that he was backing out _now_. But what emerged from his mouth was nothing but a broken, breathy whimper, the exact duplicate of what he had said last time John had been this close to touching his wings (except this time there were no gloves, no shirt in the way, nothing but John's skin, oh God, oh...)

"_Please_."

John didn't waste a moment - thank God he didn't want to tease Sherlock this time. A single, tanned, gentle hand, smaller than Sherlock's own, descended, as if in slow motion. Sherlock heard his heart beat once, twice…

John's hand touched Sherlock's feathers and the world stopped.

The breath rushed from his lungs in a single, hoarse gasp as that unbearable, unstoppable, _fantastic _rush of feeling (just like before, only a thousand times stronger) cascaded through his wings. Wave upon wave of that terrible, tingling, beautiful pleasure shuddered through him, until he felt he might break apart. His back was arched, heart thundering, panting for breath. He felt bare and exposed and he didn't _care, _in fact he relished it,because it was John, oh God, and he just wanted to clutch him close and breathe him in forever. He felt like John's hand was touching him deep, deep inside – there was a delicious, warm burn in his chest, as though this _goodness_ went deeper than all the badness had done before.

"Sherlock, are you OK?"

John moved slightly, as though to take his hand away, and Sherlock, panicking, surged upwards, desperate not to end the contact. It was warmth and loving and being loved, and so fragile and perfect that he couldn't let it stop. John grinned, and bent to kiss him again, soft, tender lips brushing his. Sherlock moaned and let his head fall back so John could trail more kisses down that long pale neck and over the jutting ribs. He paused for a moment, and Sherlock's heart began pounding again, because he knew that he'd found the scars - the pale, near-invisible, secret lines that adorned Sherlock's ribs. He'd made them a long time ago, now, with sharp cold metal, when the drugs weren't enough. The memories were vivid and horrible, and he was so afraid that John was going to stop, going to ask questions, going to...

"Sshhh," John said, and laved his tongue down the line of scars. There was sadness in his voice, but the hand on Sherlock's wings rubbed a soothing circle that made Sherlock moan again. "You're not disgusted by mine, are you?"

"No, no, no, John, no, please..." More desperate kisses, until Sherlock had to pause, out of breath. "Of course I'm not."

"Well, the same is true for yours," John said gently. His hand traced along the line of Sherlock's wing, fingers gently massaging, until Sherlock felt as if those fingers were touching his very soul, fingers wiping away the doubts and fears and leaving peace and love in their place. He stared wonderingly at John, who then took matters into his own hands and bent his head to nuzzle his face in Sherlock's feathers.

Sherlock's back arched again with the shock, and John grinned and began to work on another sloppy line of kisses – across Sherlock's abdomen, meandering down to his lips, and then _oh_… lower… _oh_…

xxxxx

Some time later, they lay together, happy, warm and sated. John's hand was still touching Sherlock's wing gently. The feathers were delicate and satiny-soft, and John thought he could be quite happy if he never stopped touching them again. When he had tried to take his hand away before, Sherlock had shivered and buried his head in John's chest, so John had replaced it. Somehow it made him feel uniquely closer to Sherlock, as though they were the only people in the world. Just him and Sherlock, and the warm wash of sleep that was beginning to drift over him.

He glanced across at Sherlock. His skin had almost returned to its customary pallor, but there was still a faint pink blush staining his white cheeks. The bright, desperate light in his eyes had faded, and had been replaced by a sleepy, contented gaze that John didn't think he had ever seen before.

Sherlock caught his eye, and smiled slightly. He was radiating a calm, quiet warmth that made John feel impossibly happy.

"I love you," Sherlock said softly, and long fingers reached out for John's face, tracing a line from his ear to his jaw. John closed his eyes in contentment, and wondered how long it would be before he fell asleep. Not long, if the warm heaviness of his eyelids was anything to go by.

He gently removed Sherlock's hand from his face, and held it tightly, fingers linked together. Sherlock snuggled a little closer, tucking his head into John's chest, his legs entwined with John's and long arms wrapped about him. John didn't think he'd ever been happier.

"I love you too."

xxxxx

_**Author's Note: **_OH GOD GUYS. I am so so so sorry this has taken so long to do, truly I am! But it is a **really** long chapter, so please forgive me! Got my first GCSE on Monday (for those of you who live in happy GCSE-free worlds – they're like horrid huge exam things) so have been stressing and not doing enough revision and I've got exams on and off basically until the end of June D: My sixteenth birthday is going to be utterly sabotaged by revision :'(

So yeah, anyway, updates may be few and far between. But I was kind of planning the next chapter just to be a mini finishing off once with them heading back to Baker Street anyway so I can actually concentrate on my work and then maybe flit back to some of my old un-finished stories! Though I wouldn't rule out a sequel ;) And about the sex scene – I went for Lumoa's idea in the end, so maybe there will be an M-rated what-happened-in-between chapter appearing at some point, but for now I really need to work (for some reason I'm doing a GCSE in Latin, so have literally pages of Ovid to learn).

So thank you for reading, sorry for the terribly long delay and also this incredibly long note, and please give me a review if you have the time – you KNOW it will brighten up my day! :D Love you! xxx


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